


Will There be Any Freight Trains in Heaven?

by phoenixflight



Series: Freight Trains [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Great Depression, Homelessness, M/M, Mutual Pining, New Deal Politics, Period Typical Attitudes, Poverty, Shirtlessness, Small Steve, Socialism, Sweat, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-03-03 14:47:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 56,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13343460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixflight/pseuds/phoenixflight
Summary: It's summer of 1934, a quarter of all Americans are unemployed, and record numbers of migrant workers are hopping freight trains to seek their fortune out west. What are two boys from Brooklyn to do?or, Steve and Bucky ride the rails, become socialists, and fall in love, in no particular order.





	1. Brooklyn, NY 1934

**Author's Note:**

> This idea popped into my head almost fully formed and wouldn't leave. A million thanks to my beta @thedoubteriswise on tumblr and my friends for yelling with me about this, headcanoning all over the place, and then whipping my draft into shape. All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
>  
> 
> Title from a 1932 song, The Hobo's Meditation, by Jimmie Rodgers.
> 
>  
> 
> _Will there be any freight trains in heaven,_  
>  Any boxcars in which we might hide?  
> Will there be any tough cops or brakemen,  
> Will they tell us that we cannot ride?

Nobody worried much when Bucky didn’t come home for dinner. He picked up odd jobs after work, or a second shift at the docks if he could. Sometimes Steve suspected him of missing meals deliberately so that the scarce food would stretch further. The five of them ate mostly in silence. He remembered Sunday dinners with the Barnes when his mother was alive, and when Mr. Barnes was both alive and sober, Bucky always talking a mile a minute about whatever he was learning in school or making his sisters laugh with stories about the scrapes he got Steve out of that day. Back then the tiny apartment hadn’t felt so crowded, even though there had been more people packed around the table in the kitchen. Worry and hardship took up space that friendly laughter did not. 

After dinner he did the washing up so that Mrs. Barnes could sit after standing all day at the laundromat, and then he helped Becca, the littlest, with her spelling until the girls went to bed. Bucky still wasn’t back when Mrs Barnes joined the girls several hours later, and Steve unrolled the thin pallet that he and Bucky shared on the kitchen floor. It was a chill spring night and without Bucky underneath the blanket, he lay shivering for a long time before he fell asleep.

He woke with a jerk, heart rabbiting, at a loud thud outside the door. For a moment he fought for breath, throat tight. As he struggled to his feet there was another thump outside in the hall and a skittering scrape of metal across the lock.

When he yanked the door open Bucky almost collapsed on top of him, key in hand. “Oof. Sorry Stevie.” Steve, his cheek mashed against Bucky’s chest, breathed in the familiar smell of Bucky’s sweat and the reek of cheap gin. 

Peeling himself off Steve, Bucky lurched into the apartment. Closing the door, Steve trailed after him. “Are you alright?” 

“Peachy.” His voice was slurred and too loud for the thin walls. 

“Shh.” 

“Peachy,” he repeated in an exaggerated whisper, and flopped down on the pallet. 

“Buck… What happened?” 

Bucky stopped pawing at his boot laces and tipped his head back against the wall. Orange light from the window spilled across his face, casting his features in bright relief - his high cheekbones, the nose that healed straight even after Bobby Gillingham broke it in 8th grade. Stubble darkened his jaw and the line of his throat, and Steve had to force his gaze away from the bob of his Adam’s apple. Bucky’s eyes glittered in the lamplight from outside. He watched Steve steadily, wearing an expression he couldn’t discern - not quite anger, almost defiance. 

There was silence for so long Steve thought Bucky had forgotten the question, and then his tongue flicked out to wet his lips and he muttered, “Laid off.” 

“Shit.” 

“Yeah.” A strand of hair fell loose from its slick into his eyes as he nodded. “Not just me. Bunch of the youngest guys.” His face scrunched up as he mimicked his supervisor. “Hard times. Good workers, not personal. The other guys have families to support.” He scowled fiercely at the door where his mother and sisters slept. 

Steve laid a hand on Bucky’s elbow. “You’ll find another job, Buck.” 

Bucky snorted. “Will I?” Leaning forward, he began to struggle with his shoelaces again. 

“Sure. You’re strong, you’re hardworking, you’ve got experience now.” Steve’s throat was tight, like his body was trying to strangle the words. After five years, any illusions anyone had about the resilience of the economy were gone. 

Bucky’s mouth twisted like he was reading Steve’s mind, but all he said was, “Go to sleep, Steve.” 

~

 

Steve had a knot in his stomach all the time, but he wasn’t sick. It was partly hunger, because he only felt full on Sundays when they had real beef stew, but mostly just worry. 

He worried about Mrs. Barnes as the shadows under her eyes grew deeper and the frown lines on her brow more pronounced. She was barely 35 but she was stooped and gray like the last five years had aged her twenty. 

Edith, the oldest Barnes girl, started staying home to work with Mrs. Barnes on the mending and alteration that she took in. Steve had protested that he could sew just as well and it should be him helping, because he was older (by five months), but Edith and Mrs. Barnes had both insisted that he stay in school. 

“You need it more than I do,” Edith told him. 

“Why, because I’m a boy?” Steve had exclaimed. “It’s 1934!”

She rolled her eyes. “Settle down. I just mean, I’ve already finished primary school, and you’re not done.” This was a sore spot. Constant illness and missed school had made him the oldest student in 8th grade. Edith had been finished with primary school for two years. 

So he walked the two younger girls to school in the morning, and in the afternoon he walked around the neighborhood looking for work. He wasn’t strong like Bucky, but people knew he was trustworthy and hardworking. Sometimes Mr. Horowitz, the greengrocer, let him watch the shop on Saturday while he and his sons were at shul, but it was never enough money. And anyway, the Horowitzes couldn’t really afford to hire help these days, and he worried about them too, as well as the Kowalskis with a new baby, and the widow Bloom who couldn’t sew any more because her hands shook. 

But mostly he worried about Bucky. They still left at the same time every morning, Steve shepherding the girls, and Bucky knocking on doors and flexing his muscles to round up work. Bucky still came home late, sometimes with money from an odd job, or with a sack of potatoes or a wool blanket or some other odd thing in trade. Mostly though, he came home with a grim expression and empty hands. When he was home in the evening, he didn’t tease or laugh with his sisters, or roughhouse with Steve, just helped silently with the cooking and washing and went to bed early. 

Increasingly often, he didn’t come back until the early hours, when he stumbled in stinking of cheap spirits and sometimes a girl’s perfume. On those nights, Steve helped Bucky take off his shoes and lay beside him, fists clenched at his sides, staring into the dark until Bucky’s breath evened out into drunken snores. 

 

A chilly April gave way to a mild May, and people started taking their gloves off in soup lines. One night, Steve woke suddenly, not sure what had disturbed him. For once Bucky was a warm, solid presence against his side, where he belonged, his wiffy feet in Steve’s face. Then he heard a soft, snuffling sob outside the window on the fire escape. 

Bucky mumbled and rolled over as Steve got up. Perched outside against the brick wall was Rebecca, with her knees drawn up to her chest and her coat wrapped over her nightgown. She had wedged the window up just enough to slip out but not to the point where it always squeaked. 

“Becca?” 

She squeaked and jumped. “Steve?” Then her red face crumpled and she was sobbing again, a thready, pathetic noise. 

“Becca…” He wedged his shoulders out the window, but he was, thankfully, larger than an 8 year old girl. Forcing the sash further up, he winced when it squealed predictably and glanced back into the kitchen at Bucky, who didn’t twitch. “Hey, Becca…” He crouched next to her, the iron grid of the fire escape frigid under his stocking feet. “What’s wrong?” 

She blew her nose into her sleeve and gulped, “I’m scared.” 

“Did you have a nightmare?” 

She shook her head, and said nothing. Rubbing his hands together for warmth, Steve waited, the metal under his knees growing painful. 

“Mama cries at night,” she whispered finally. “She thinks we don’t know, but I can’t sleep sometimes when I’m hungry. I’m scared because Mama is crying, and because it’s hard to buy food and Naomi needs new shoes and her toes hurt all the time, and because the Pankowitzes got eva- evit-,” she gulped, “thrown out. And because Bucky is drinking too much.” 

“He’s not...”

“He is!” Becca yelped. “Don’t lie to me Steve, I’m eight, I’m not stupid! I help with the washing and his clothes always smell like swill and he comes in late all the time now, even though he hardly ever used to go out without you. He’s not finding any work and he’s going to be a drunk just like Papa, then he’ll probably get in an accident and get killed because everyone said that Papa was drunk when he died, and we’ll all have to go to the poorhouse like Jenny McCleary and her ma...” Her voice had risen in an alarming wail. 

“Becca, Becca.” Putting an arm around her narrow shoulders, he hugged her while she shook against his side. “Shhhhh. That’s not true, no one’s gonna die, and Bucky’s not gonna be a drunk.” 

“Hu-how do you know?” she snuffled into his sleeve. 

“Because I won’t let him. Hey, Becca, look at me.” She lifted her swollen eyes and squinted at him. “You know your brother is my best friend, right? That means we look out for each other. Buck’s not gonna drink too much because he’s got me to look out for him, and because he knows he’s gotta be sober to look out for me.” His stomach ached with how much  he wished that was true. “And anyway, he knows I can beat him up if he’s being stupid.” 

She giggled weakly, and wiped her nose on his shoulder. 

“Think you can sleep now? Or at least go back to bed where it’s warm? I might be able to fight your brother, but your Ma would hide me if you froze your toes off out here.” 

Rubbing her eyes, she nodded. They were both stiff and unsteady as they stood, and Steve helped Becca back through the window. She padded softly across the kitchen, stepping around the lumpy shape of Bucky sleeping on the floor. At the door to the other room she paused and whispered, “Thanks, Steve.” The door clicked shut behind her. 

As he crawled back onto the pallet, he thought he saw Bucky’s eyes open, light glinting in them. “Buck?” he whispered, slipping under the blanket. 

“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse. 

Steve’s chest squeezed. “Did you… How much did you hear?” 

Bucky said nothing for a long time. Steve could feel his ribs rising and falling with his breath. “Your feet are freezing,” he mumbled finally, closing a warm, rough palm around Steve’s toes. 

 

Bucky was at home when Steve and the girls got back from school the next day. He was sitting at the table with Edith, helping her darn socks. When the three of them arrived, he scooped up Rebecca in a hug and planted a kiss on top of her head, reaching out to tousle Naomi’s curls. “Guess what?” 

“What?” Naomi asked, ducking away from his hand with the dignity of a 12 year old.  Over her head, Bucky grinned at Steve. There were circles under his eyes, but when he smiled he looked almost like his old self, and Steve felt his heartbeat speed up. 

“Edith is going to take you on a picnic. It’s a beautiful day and I packed you corned beef sandwiches.” He pointed to a basket beside his sister.  

Naomi scampered around the table to poke her nose in the basket, but Becca was frowning. “Won’t you come with us?” 

“Not today, sweetheart. I gotta talk to Steve.” 

Steve raised his eyebrows. 

“Why can’t you have your talk in the park, while we have a picnic?” 

“Mind your own business. I promise that when you get back I will spend the whole evening with you and we can do whatever you want to do.” 

“I miss you,” she mumbled, leaning against him. 

“I miss you too.” He rubbed her back, staring down at the top of her head with frown lines deep around his mouth again. 

Peeking up at him through her hair, she said, “Will you teach me to play poker?” 

Bucky barked a startled laugh, throwing back his head. “You’re a menace, Rebecca Barnes.”  

“You said anything I wanted!”

“Yeah, okay, fine. Poker it is.”

After the girls left, Steve and Bucky sat opposite one another, afternoon light slanting through the window and illuminating the scarred wood of the table, so every rough patch of in the grain, every burn mark and knick, stood out. Bucky had his hands folded in front of him in the yellow light, calloused thumb worrying over his knuckles, and Steve wanted to draw them so badly his own hands ached. He couldn’t remember the last time he had the leisure to study Bucky in daylight. 

Feeling like  he was going a little glassy-eyed, he dragged his gaze away from Bucky’s hands. “What was it you wanted to talk about?” 

“I’m going to go west.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” He looked up, defiant. “I’m going to hop a train out west, look for work. Send money home.”

Steve’s own hands clenched on the table edge. “Buck, you can’t… that’s not… you can’t leave!”  

“I gotta Stevie. I’m doing no one a lick of good sitting around here.” His mouth twisted. “I gotta get out before I turn into my father.” 

“You’re not… Becca was just scared. You’re not going to turn into him.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why, ‘cause you won’t let me?”

Under different circumstances, the mocking tone of  voice would have been the start of a fight, but Steve could hear the self-loathing in it. He deliberately unclenched his fists. “Yeah, that’s right, asshole.” 

Bucky’s shoulders sagged, and he slumped forward on the table, fingers digging furrows in his slicked hair. “Look, I ain’t going off half-cocked about this, okay? I’ve been thinking about this for awhile. I gotta… something’s gotta give.” His voice sank into a hoarse whisper. “Becca was right.” 

“Becca was  _ not _ right-!”

“Becca was right!” Bucky interrupted, slamming a hand flat on the table. “I can’t find work, and I’m drinking too much. And anyway, with me gone it’ll be one less mouth to feed. I eat as much as any two of you put together.” They glared at each other, both breathing hard. Then Bucky added, softly, “If I’m gonna be a drunken bum, I don’t want my sisters to see me like that.”

Steve’s eyes were stinging. “We could move out. Somewhere else in the city. Get a place of our own. So we’re not a burden on your Ma.”  

“Are you listening to me, Stevie? We can’t afford a place of our own. In case you didn’t notice, neither of us is what you’d call employed.” 

“Well, what makes you think there’s work somewhere else? This is  _ New York _ .” 

“It’s a big country. There’s gotta be...farm work and stuff.”

“You don’t know shit about farms. You wouldn’t know a cow from a sheep if it bit you on the ass.” 

“Asshole,” Bucky scowled. “Look, I’ve been talking to some folks. About freight hopping. Some of the guys down at the docks have done it, I’ve been asking questions. Doesn’t seem hard. Just gotta figure out which trains are going where, and then not get caught by the police or the brakemen.” 

“Then…” Steve twisted his fingers together. “Then I’ll come with you.” 

“ _ No. _ I knew you were gonna say that, and the answer’s no.” Steve crossed his arms. Bucky huffed out a breath. “Listen punk, this is my dumb idea, not yours, so I’m not dragging you into it with me.” 

“Oh, so you admit it’s a dumb idea?” 

He glared. “I know it’s taking a chance and if it doesn’t pan out, I don’t want you in the middle of it too.” 

“Too bad. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.” 

“You gotta stay in school.” 

“I’m almost done. I can miss the last couple of weeks.” 

“What if you get sick?” 

“It’s summer.” 

“You get sick any goddamn time.” 

Steve scuffed his foot on the floor under the table, unwilling to admit that was a valid point. “They have doctors outside New York don’t they?” 

“You’re gonna have an asthma attack and fall over and get hit by a train. Remember that movie?” 

“I hardly ever have asthma attacks anymore. And I’m not  gonna get hit by a train ‘cause you’d grab me in time. Anyway, what if I got sick here without you? I wouldn’t want your Ma or the girls having to take care of me.” 

“You know they’d…” 

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve interrupted, “I know. That’s not the point. We stick together. Would you want me out there alone?” 

“That’s not the same…” 

“Because I’m small? You think I wouldn’t be able to take care of myself?” 

“You know that’s not…” 

“Oh yeah? Isn’t it?”

“Steve.” He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “Stop it, ok. Of course I want you with me. You’re my best pal. I just… it’s not gonna be easy out there” 

“Then you’d better be looking out for me.” Steve scowled at him across the table. 

Bucky rubbed his jaw. “Alright. Alright, ok. You got me. If we both regret this, just remember it’s on you.” 

Steve grinned. “Sure thing, Buck.” 

 

They had dinner ready and were playing poker for matchsticks when Mrs. Barnes arrived home. Her lined face creased in a hesitant smile and she rubbed her chapped hands against her elbows, clearly not sure whether to be pleased or suspicious. 

The meal felt fragile and perfect as a soap bubble, more subdued than the dinners Steve remembered from his childhood, but happy in a quiet way. Bucky listened attentively to Becca and Naomi talking about school and grinned when Edith mentioned, trying to look casual, that Tommy Baker had asked her to dance on Friday. Mrs. Barnes watched her only son with a tender, almost wistful expression.  

After dinner and the washing up, Becca went to get her school book, but Bucky put a hand on her arm. “Becca, come sit.” With them all around the table, he laced his hands together, sat up straighter, and looked his mother in the eye. “Steve and I are going to go traveling to look for work.” 

Mrs. Barnes put a hand over mouth. 

“What?” Edith gasped.

“You’re gonna leave?” Becca wailed.

“Just for a while,” he promised Becca. “We'll find work, send money back, save up till we can come home.” 

Everyone at the table started talking over one another.

“Don’t you think that’s…” 

“James you can’t just-”

“What if something happens…”

“Of all the stupid-”

“Naomi!”

“Well, it is stupid!” 

Watching Bucky’s pained expression, Steve thought privately that he should have seen this coming. 

Becca started to cry. Mrs Barnes threw her hands in the air. “Surely there's work in the city somewhere. Have you tried Long Island?” 

“You think I haven’t? I've tried Long Island, I’ve tried the Bronx, I’ve tried goddamn  _ Jersey _ ,” Bucky snapped. Edith drew a sharp breath. 

“James Buchanan Barnes.” Mrs Barnes mouth was a flat line. “Language.”

Bucky winced. “Sorry, sorry. I'm sorry, Ma. It's just, we've thought about this and made our decision.”  He looked over at Steve, to share the resolution, and Steve made a face at him.  _ “ _ We've both been looking hard for work. And we're going west. That way you won't have to worry about feeding us and we can still send money back.”

Naomi was picking crumbs from her plate and licking them off her fingertips. “But how are you going to get there? It cost a lot of money to go to Uncle Abraham’s funeral in Philadelphia last year.” 

Bucky glanced at Steve and grimaced. “We're going to take the train.” 

“You mean riding the rails?” Edith asked. “But that's dangerous!” 

“We'll be fine. Tons of folks are doing it these days.”

“You're gonna be a hobo,” Rebecca wailed.

Mrs Barnes pulled Becca onto her lap and glared at Bucky. “Boys die out there. Didn’t you see that movie that came out last year?” 

“Ma, that’s Hollywood. And anyway,  _ you _ didn’t see that movie.” 

“ _ I  _ saw it,” Naomi said. “It looked swell. I want to go rail riding.” 

“You hush,” Mrs Barnes snapped. 

“Bucky’s going to die like Papa,” Rebecca blubbed into her mother’s shoulder. “And then what’ll we do?” 

Steve exchanged a helpless look with Bucky. “I won’t let him die, Becca, I promise. We’ll look out for each other, that’s what we do.” This didn’t seem sufficient. She squinted at him with a scrunched up face, and began to sob again. 

“Shh, shh, shh.” Her mother rocked her. “Edith, put on some water. Becca, we’re going to have some tea, and then you’ll go to bed,” 

“No, no, no,” Rebecca began. 

Mrs. Barnes glared at her son.  _ Look what you’ve done. _ “You’ll go to bed,” she repeated, “And James and Steve will still be here in the morning.” 

The two younger girls were eventually shuffled off to bed, Naomi protesting, Becca looking drained and listless. Steve could see the pain in Bucky’s eyes watching his youngest sister. With the girls finally asleep, Mrs. Barnes emerged from their room, and put her arms around her son. Startled, and a little awkward, he hugged her back. 

“Ma?” he said, voice trembling slightly. Steve had to look away. Across from him, Edith was staring down at her hands clasped on the tabletop. 

“You know I just want you to be safe,” she murmured. “Both of you boys. Every mother wants to keep her children under her skirts forever, but you’re too big for that. I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all. But if you’re minds are made up, nothing I can say will change them.” She heaved a sigh, pressing her cheek against the top of Bucky’s head. “I raised four children who know their own minds, God help me. But if you don’t come home in one piece,” she added, pushing him back to glare at him sternly. “I will track you down if I have to ride the rails myself, and make you wish you’d never been born.” 

Bucky cracked a weak grin. “I love you, Ma.” 

“I love you too, Jamie. Don’t you forget that.” 

~

 

On Saturday instead of hustling work, they went to the public library. It was a balmy spring day, verging on hot, and for once Steve’s joints didn’t ache and his breath came easy. Walking beside Bucky in the sun down familiar streets, there was a bubble of happiness lodged under his ribcage. Freshly shaved, his hair slicked back, and the weight of despair lifted from his face, Bucky looked like a million bucks, grinning at girls they passed. It made Steve’s chest ache to look at him, but Bucky in a good mood was always magnetic and Steve was used to the sharp tug under his breastbone. 

At the library, they spread maps out over one of the polished tables, and Steve opened his sketchbook. It was one of the only luxuries he had allowed himself. His Ma had given him his first when he was 9 and she caught him sketching in the blank front-pieces of his school books. Since then, when he was close to filling one, he had begun saving for another. Kids at school used to tease him for it, but as he’d gotten more skilled at drawing unflattering caricatures, most of the bullies had backed off rather than have pictures of them passed around and laughed over. Steve had gotten caned for that once in 6th grade, but it had been worth it for the look on Jimmy McNaughton’s face. 

As he copied the railroad maps quadrant by quadrant, into a clean page of the notebook, he reflected that even strict Mrs. Malone, who had a great love of switches and no appreciation for art, would have to admit that it was a useful skill. Copying down the names of towns - some totally unknown, backward sounding, others familiar and yet as distant and unreal as the moon - gave him a thrill that made his neck tingle. Buffalo. Chicago. Sioux Falls. Witchita. Salt Lake City. Butte. Manuelito. Donkey Creek. Fresno. The names got stranger and wilder the further west he went, and Steve felt the excitement of it skittering under his pencil point. He was also very aware of Bucky watching him, kicking his heels against the legs of the chair. “That’s perfect,” he said, when Steve finished the last quadrant of the map, pulling the notebook toward him and peering at it. Sunlight slanting through the high windows shone in his dark hair. “You could print this in a school book it’s so neat.” 

Steve’s cheeks were warm. “Where should we go?” he said, deflecting the compliment. Leaning his elbows on the table, he craned his head beside Bucky’s, smelling the brilliantine in his hair. “It’s such a big country.” 

“The papers have been saying that the drought is worst down in Oklahoma, Texas, Kansas, that whole area. I figure  we should avoid that. There won’t be good work with all the farms struggling. So,” he traced a finger in an arc over the top of the map. “The Northern Pacific Line.” 

It was beginning to feel real, growing like something solid in his chest, anticipation and fear making it hard to breathe. Looking up, he met Bucky’s gaze, saw the reckless gleam of adventure and the  bravado masking his own fear. Slowly Steve nodded. “The Northern Pacific.” 


	2. On the Road

The rail terminal outside the Navy yard sprawled monstrously, dozens of tracks laid out like pencils in a box, only with their ends all tangled together. It was a dusty, hot afternoon, with barely a breeze off the river, shimmering heat waves rising from the rails. Freight trains rumbled past, men shouted and gestured inscrutably to one another. Some wore the coal stained coveralls and caps of the railway engineers and brakemen, others were in Navy uniform. 

Crouched behind a stack of barrels at the edge of the yard, Steve dropped his pack on the ground and rubbed the back of his neck. “How the hell are we supposed to figure out which trains are going where?” 

Bucky craned his neck. “Well, there’s only one way off the island, right?” 

“Yeah, but it’s a big island. I bet trains have to go out to East Hampton too. You think there’s a schedule somewhere?” 

“Nah, not like the passenger trains. Probably on the stationmaster’s desk, fat lot of good that is.” 

“It was just an idea. Aren’t you supposed to be the expert here?” Steve said irritably. “What did your friends say?” 

“Matty said you catch the trains on the way out of the yard, so you know which direction it’s going, and so the bulls don’t get you. Ya know, the security.” 

A growing rumble was overwhelmed by a howl of steam as a train pulled onto the tracks near where they were hiding, the engine panting and brakes squealing as it slowed.

“Look!” Bucky pointed to the back end of the train where a dozen or so grimy figures were leaping down from the moving boxcars and scampering across the tracks away from them. A man wearing coveralls yelled, “Oi, off with you lot!” but the boys were already halfway across the yard, toward a cluster of sheds at the landward side of the rails.

“C’mon.” Bucky yanked at his arm. “They know what they’re doing.” Steve stumbled to his feet as Bucky took off across the yard towards the other boys. Clutching his pack and panting, Steve scrambled to keep up and tried not to trip over the tracks. 

Steve eyed the boxcars uncertainly as they darted past. The deck of the rail car was at shoulder height. Bucky could haul himself up without much trouble, but Steve would need a hand even if it was standing still. 

At one end of the tracks they rounded the corner of a large wooden building, and Bucky almost crashed into one of the boys, who shoved him away. “Watch it! You’re lucky I didn’t slug you!” 

The boy was almost as small as Steve, probably three years younger, with dark skin and a scowl bigger than his face. Bucky put up his hands. “Hey, sorry. We’re headed to Chicago, wanted to see if anyone else was headed that way.” 

Sizing them up somewhat disdainfully, the boy sniffed, “Gaycats?” 

“Sorry?” Bucky blinked. 

“You’re new.” 

Bucky shrugged, scowling. 

“S’alright,” the boy continued, generously. “We was all new once. Chicago, eh? I ain’t headed that way, but I could take you as far as Buffalo. If you’d want to travel with me.” 

“Sure.” Bucky glanced over at Steve, who nodded. “Don’t see why not. I hear Buffalo’s nice.” 

The boy snorted. “You ain’t heard no such thing, but it’s nice of you to say. Wait here, I need water before I catch out again.”

“We’ve got water, you want some?” Steve fumbled in the pack for his father’s army canteen, and held it out. 

For a moment the boy’s face was open, startled, and then he shook his head. “Thanks, but I gotta fill up my own bottle. Best to have more than less water.” 

“What’s your name?” Steve asked. 

“People call me Muzzie.”

“I’m Steve. This is Bucky.” 

“Nice to meetcha,” Bucky added. 

Muzzie eyed them. “Same. Ok, this is the wash shed.” He jerked his thumb at the wall behind him. “Where they clean out the furnace and smoke stack and all so there ain’t a soot fire, and also shine up the outside so we don’t got dirty engines being disgraceful to American commerce,” he drawled. “Wash shed’s a good spot for water. I’m gonna nip inside and see if I can’t get to a tap when nobody’s looking. Be back in a jiff, you boys stay put.” 

He vanished around the side of the building. Steve and Bucky looked at each other. “Boys?” Bucky mouthed. “Who’s he calling a boy? If he’s a day older than Naomi, I’ll eat my hat.” 

“Maybe he’s just short.” Steve crouched against the shed wall while they waited, pack between his knees. “S’not a crime to be short.” 

“Yeah?” Bucky tilted his head down, eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat but Steve could hear him smile. “Lucky for you, cause you ain’t cut out for a life of crime.” 

“Oh yeah? You watch, I’m gonna go west and make a name for myself robbing trains.”

“You gotta catch one first,” Buck grinned. 

Muzzie came back around the corner, tucking a corked glass bottle into his pack. “What’re you two hollering about? I could hear your voices right through the wall.”

Steve winced and glanced behind him at the weathered boards. “Did anyone notice?” 

“Nah. Still, better safe than sorry.”

“Right, we’ll be more careful.” Bucky dropped his voice. “Stevie here was just telling me how he’s gonna be the world’s smallest train robber, once he learns how to catch trains. Mighty kind of you to offer to help us,” he added, sweet faced and innocent.

Muzzie eyed him like he wasn’t sure if Bucky was joking. “Well we ain’t gonna catch nothing standing here. Let’s go.” 

“How do you know which trains are going the direction you want?” Steve asked as they trotted back across the yard. 

“Well you gotta know the departure tracks and arrival tracks, and normally you can tell which direction a train is going by which track it leaves on. North or south, or whatnot, but let me tell you, the only place trains go in New York City is out of the city. You can tell which ones are headed out because of what’s in them. Things come in, see, and the food gets sold and coal gets burned, and then they get filled again with boxes of hats and dresses and whatever the hell else you folks export.” The departure tracks are those down there.” Muzzie pointed. “This yard is pretty heavily patrolled, so we’ll catch out on the fly.” 

“On the fly?” 

“Yeah. You know.” He grinned. “Moving.” 

 

The three of them waited in the shade of a stack of barrels by the departure tracks. 

“Here comes one,” Muzzie murmured, pointing at a train across the yard. It didn’t look to Steve like it was headed in the right direction, but then the switchman threw the switch and the train slid smoothly onto a new track, headed straight for them. “Alright. You remember what we talked about? It don’t look fast, but it’s a hell of a lot faster when you’re running along side it. Just pick your moment, don’t tire yourself out running. ”

The whistle shrilled twice, and Steve could hear the huffing bellow of the engine approaching. 

“Here it comes...” Muzzie was crouched like a sprinter, looking back over his shoulder. The locomotive was coming on slowly, steam billowing above it. “Grab any ladder you can and I’ll meet you over the top.”

“Over the top?” Bucky yelled, but Muzzie was already sprinting, gravel flying from his heels. “Steve are you sure…?” 

“Shaddup,” Steve grunted, tightening the straps on his pack. “If I grab a ladder, think you can get on the same one?” 

“Yeah, but….” 

Steve took a deep breath, until his lungs felt pinched, and ran. 

Gravel crunched under his feet. A current of wind from under the wheels rocked him. Dust and coal smoke caught in his lungs, choking him.  The metal wheel rims squealed against the track, and he could hear Bucky behind him, closing the gap, always a faster runner. 

Out of the corner of his eye he watched the boxcars roll up and past, saw the ladders on each one flickering by. He was so close to the train that he felt the slipstream  trying to pull  him under the wheels. The air was hot and sooty. His throat wanted to close, his thighs and calves burned.

Reaching behind him for the next ladder, his fingers closed around warm metal. In a moment in would be ahead of him, and then yanked out of his grasp. Hauling as hard as he could , he stepped into the air beside the boxcar, and his foot found the lowest rung. 

The acceleration rocked him back against the side of the train, clutching the ladder. A hand closed on the rung beside his and then Bucky was slammed against him by the movement of the train. His fingers slipped and he nearly toppled from the car before one of Bucky’s arms closed tightly around him. Bucky’s whole body was pressed against his, sweaty and smelling of dust and smoke, crushing him up against the side of the car. 

Steve’s limbs were suddenly made of rubber and he was giggling into Bucky’s shoulder, unable to catch his breath. 

“Ok there champ?” Bucky asked. His voice was shaking. 

“We still gotta go up,” Steve wheezed. Bucky swore under his breath, making Steve laugh harder. His lungs were burning. “This was your idea,” he choked. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Bucky muttered. “You should know better’n to listen to me. Ok, can you climb?”

“Yeah, jeez. Go on.” But after Bucky had hauled himself up, Steve clung to the ladder, feeling weak and short of breath, forehead pressed against the warm metal of the next rung. 

“Steve?” Bucky’s head popped over the top of the car. His voice was reedy in the wind.

“Coming,” Steve mumbled, mostly to himself, and forced his watery arms to haul him up the ladder. 

He was attacked by the wind as he came over the top, but Bucky’s hand closed around his wrist, steadying him. As he got his knees under him and looked around, keeping low to minimize the buffeting of the air, he saw the familiar smoke stacks, dilapidated buildings and warehouses, the brownstones and apartments beyond, the sprawling naval yard, the huge ship at dock, all sliding by as the train gained speed. Bucky’s hand was still on his arm.  

Looking over his other shoulder, he saw a slight figure clambering  across the top of the next car, crouched low against the wind and holding his cap with one hand. Reaching the end of the car, he coiled himself up and leapt across the gap, landing safely before Steve could even finish opening his mouth to shout. 

“Alright?” Muzzie shouted, barely audible over the wind. He was grinning like a maniac. 

“Sure,” Bucky muttered, so only Steve heard him. “Peachy.” 

“We’re alright!” Steve yelled back. “That was some jump!” 

“Weren’t nothing! Hey, watch your head!” 

Steve looked around to see the glitter of East River, with the Manhattan skyline rising sooty and majestic beyond, and the rapidly approaching overhead struts of a truss bridge. They threw themselves flat to the roof of the boxcar, Steve clutching the pack and Bucky clutching Steve.

The rattle of the tracks changed tenor and Steve could hear the metal beams whistling just overhead. The air changed too, cool and salty. Rolling his head to one side, Steve saw the river through the rapidly moving beams of the bridge, a street paved in silver flowing out to the wide, bright sea. He wished for a set of paints so much it hurt. 

Then the whistling overhead was gone and they were in Manhattan, able to ease themselves back into crouched sitting positions. Bucky was still holding Steve’s elbow. 

“I kinda pictured being, ya know, inside the boxcars,” he yelled over the wind. “How long are we gonna be up here?”

Muzzie leaned over to yell back. “They’ll stop eventually at some town, and we’ll get in one of the cars. Nothing we can do till then. Relax.” 

“Relax,” Bucky muttered, shifting his grip on Steve’s arm. 

“You can see everything,” Steve said, twisting to look over his shoulder. He wanted to draw it, the shapes of the city, the buildings, the jagged canyons of light and shade in the afternoon sun, but the pages would have blown out of his journal, so he anchored himself against Bucky’s side and watched Manhattan roll by. 

 

They crossed over into Jersey, which wasn’t markedly different from New York except for being sootier, smellier, and worse in every way. The train lurched through several industrial rail yards in Hoboken, but didn’t stop, and picked up speed again heading north. 

Gradually, the landscape changed from packed industrial yards, smokestacks, and grimy tenements to neater brownstones and townhouses. There were more trees, and then eventually more trees than buildings, and then there was the Hudson, slow and sedate, running so close beside the railroad that you could almost jump in. A flight of birds startled out the marshes took off with a flutter of wings unheard over the roar of the train. 

Eventually, the train rumbled to a halt outside a small town on the river, and Muzzie peered over the edge. “Gotta keep an eye on the brakemen. Sometimes they do inspections when they stop, but not always.” No one emerged from the engine though, and Muzzie gestured, “Ok, come on,” and slipped down the ladder.

Steve was stiff from the ride and unfolded awkwardly down the rungs after him, feeling shaky. When his feet hit the ground he almost collapsed, weak and feeling like the earth was lurching under him to the rhythm of the train. 

“Sea legs,” Muzzie said. “It gets easier.” 

“You alright?” Bucky jumped down next to him, leaning against the side of the train. “Oof.” 

“Better take a piss and get in before she starts up again.” Muzzie gestured to the open boxcar, and then strolled to the shrubs beside the track to take his own advice. 

When they’d finished, Bucky hauled himself up into the boxcar, arms straining under his shirtsleeves. The deck of the car was at chest height even for him, and chin height for both Steve and Muzzie. Steve took Bucky’s offered hand to haul himself up, but Muzzie heaved himself into the car with some undignified wriggling and feet kicking in the empty air. Distantly they heard the whistle and the train lurched under their feet, moving ponderously down the track. 

Inside, the boxcar was pleasantly dim and calm after the ride up top. Steve's cheeks and nose felt warm and tight with sunburn. Without the exhausting, constant grating of the wind, he pulled out his sketchbook and propped it on his knees, his backside gradually going numb from the rumble of the rails. He did a few  fast sketches, trying to catch the blur of the landscape, filling in details of a farmhouse or fence from his memory even when they had passed out of sight, but the sense of movement always looked sloppy instead of intentional, so he abandoned it and began to sketch Bucky. 

Steve had drawn him a thousand times, from memory and from life, the cleft in his chin, the shell of his ear, his eyebrows, his nose. His thick eyelashes. His mouth. 

He knew he was some kind of messed up over Bucky, had been for a long time. When his mother had been alive he had gone to confession twice a week and confessed small lies, petty grudges, playground insults, greed, jealousy, covetousness. But he never told the priest the way he coveted Bucky’s attention, his companionship, craved his hands and his mouth when he was old enough to imagine those things. 

Down by the docks you saw men dolled up in women’s clothes, as pretty as ladies, some of them. He didn’t think he was that kind of queer. He couldn’t imagine himself in a dress, even if Bucky would take him dancing like a dame. Anyway, he didn’t dance. But the thought of going with Bucky like that, having Bucky’s hands on his hips and his waist, standing close enough he had to tip his head back to look up at him, Bucky’s arms around him, fingers in his hair, on his skin, well. That was some kind of queer, wasn’t it? 

It wasn’t that he didn’t like girls, didn’t like the thought of kissing them even. He did, but they always looked at him like he was worthless, or worse, invisible. Bucky looked at him and really saw him, knew him better than anyone else, and for some reason liked what he saw. It was one of the great mysteries of Steve’s life, how a handsome, smart guy like Buck had ended up as the constant companion and personal bodyguard to his own pissant self. 

The sun was low, casting a deep, orange gold verging on pink over the landscape. The light glowed on Bucky’s face. He looked relaxed, happy even, the worry lines smoothed from his forehead, and a smile curving his lips as he watched the river and the marshes roll by. 

Steve’s pencil scratched at that curve, at the bow of his mouth, wishing he could capture the golden pink glow lighting them all up, the way the light on Bucky’s face made his chest feel warm. The rest of it didn’t matter, he thought. Bucky was his best friend, and no other kind of desire could be as important as that.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are historical notes that accompany this fic, but it's almost midnight and I've spent at least two hours out of the last 16 crying because of PMS and also my life and I'm feeling a little drained, so I don't have them here. But stay tuned for genuine historical notes! A million thanks to my beta and everyone who commented being intrigued by chapter one. More soon!


	3. On the Road via Rochester NY

Steve woke aching all over, chilled except where his side had been pressed against Bucky, shoulder and hip throbbing from being ground against the jostling floor. Daylight was streaming into the box car, and Muzzie was shaking his foot. “Wha?” Beside him Bucky groaned and rolled over. 

“Time to get off. You feel that? Train’s slowing. There’s a jungle up ahead, I saw the sign when we passed a tree.”

Only half of those words made sense to Steve. “We’re getting off before it stops?”

“Sure. Easier than getting on.” Muzzie’s teeth flashed white in his brown face as he grinned.  

“Easy as falling off a cliff,” Bucky muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Ok, ok, I’m up. God, I feel like the inside of someone’s boot.” Stubble darkened his jaw and his hair was a mess, windblown and dusty from the ride. “When’re we getting off?” 

“Right now, ain’tcha listening? Grab your bag.”

They dropped into the gravel, Steve stumbling and skinning his hands. Muzzie pointed into the shrubs at the side of the tracks, and Steve saw what he had missed from the train. There was a camouflaged village in the bushes, dirty sheets hung up for walls, a few tarpaulins or pieces of tin as makeshift roofs, overturned crates and barrels for chairs. He could smell woodsmoke. 

There were two or three dozen men in the jungle, mostly sitting around small fires, cooking in tin cans and battered pots. They looked around as the boys approached and then away again, disinterested. One man had hung a sliver of mirror from a tree and was shaving. Clothes had been roughly washed and hung to dry still somewhat grimy. A man slept rolled in his jacket, and beside him a scruffy dog looked up as they passed and thumped its tail.  

“Home sweet home, eh?” Bucky said, glancing around. “So, what, you claim a spot? Cook breakfast?” 

Muzzie shrugged. “Sure, any spot that’s not taken. Don’t got food though. Gotta go into town for that.”

Most of the other men had looked away, accustomed to newcomers. One man, an elderly man with a sun brown face in a waistcoat and grimy shirtsleeves, smiled at them from beside one of the nearby fires. Steve nudged Muzzie, and nodded toward him, and the two of them siddled over. 

“Pull up a log,” the man said, gesturing to the rounds of wood that a couple of other men were using as stools around the fire. “I wish I could offer you coffee, but I can’t. If you want some hot water though, you’re welcome to it.” 

“Thanks.” Steve dropped the pack between his feet and sat. Muzzie followed, staying close to Steve’s shoulder. 

He offered a battered kettle. “Call me Prof.”

“Are you really a professor?” Steve asked, shaking his hand. 

“No,” the man laughed. “I used to work as a librarian, but sometimes those names just stick to you on the road.”

“Fill up your canteen,” Muzzie prompted, nudging Steve. “Never say no if it’s already been boiled. I’m Muzzie,” he added. “This is Steve and Bucky. They ain’t got proper names yet.” Standing behind him, Bucky passed Steve the canteen, and he held it out for Prof to fill. 

Another man, with a weathered, narrow face, and a long Italian nose that had been broken more than once, nodded at it. “Army issue?”

Steve nodded. “My dad’s.” 

“That takes me back.” 

“You were in the war?” 

He nodded. “105th Infantry. One of the lucky ones.” His mouth quirked like the thought that was funny. 

There was a pause, just a little too long, and then Bucky said, “We’d better go find ourselves some food.” He tapped a hand lightly on Steve’s shoulder. “Whaddya say?” 

“Yeah. I’m starved.” 

Prof laughed. “You ain’t starving but you might be after throwing your feet in this town.” The Italian snorted. 

“Maybe they just ain’t seen my pretty face yet,” Bucky quipped. “C’mon.” 

Steve got up from the fire, pack over his shoulder. “Sure. But I don’t want to go into town without a wash.”  He was rumpled and grimy from the sooty train ride and the rough sleep. 

Bucky rubbed his chin. “What I want is a shave. Toss me the pack, doll.”

Steve handed it to him. “Sure thing, cupcake.” Bucky rolled his eyes at him.

Behind him, somebody snorted. Steve turned to see a red faced man in grimy suspenders standing apart from the group at the fire, sneering at the three of them with a stub of a cigarette hanging from his lips. “That how it is, eh?” 

“You got a problem?” Steve asked, straightening his shoulders. He felt Muzzie tense beside him. 

The guy rolled his shoulders. “Nah, I ain’t got a problem. But I ain’t the pair of faggots travelling with a blackie.” 

Bucky grabbed Steve’s arm to hold him back, eyes narrowed. “Fuck off.” Prof and the other man were watching, but didn’t move to intervene. 

“Oh, you don’t keep company with regular  people then?” 

“Not people like you.” 

The man sneered. “Fuck you too, then.” 

Bucky’s fingers flexed on Steve’s shoulder. Around the camp, half a dozen other men had turned their heads also, curious, not concerned. Steve, familiar with sizing up bystanders to a fight, recognized the calm indifference.  “In your dreams, pal,” Bucky said, stone cold, and winked. 

The man glared, eyeing the width of Bucky’s shoulders, the confidence of his stance, and turned his back, spitting on the ground and stomping away. Steve let out the breath he was holding. 

“Wowee,” Bucky whistled under his breath, loosening his shoulders. “It’s like we never left home, eh Steve?” 

Muzzie was nearly vibrating by Steve’s shoulder. “Does that always work? You just… loom like that?” 

“Ha. I wish. Things get like that often on the road?” Bucky asked.

“Sometimes.” 

“I bet,” Bucky sighed. 

“He took one look at you and put his tail between his legs! I wanna be able to do that someday.” Muzzie eyed Bucky consideringly. 

Bucky snorted. “You just gotta find a friend like Steve, you’ll have plenty of opportunity to practice.” He cracked his knuckles. “Now I really want a shave and a bite to eat.” 

“The creek’s that way. I saw it when we were rolling in.” Muzzie pointed to the far side of camp. Digging in the pack, Steve passed Bucky the razor. 

“Thanks, champ. Keep your heads up while I’m gone, that guy’s the type to pick on people littler than him when they ain’t got backup.” 

“Aren’t they all,” Steve called after him. 

  
  


Steve, Bucky and Muzzie followed the tracks into the small town. It was a hot, sticky day and the main street where the train tracks crossed was quiet. The general store on the corner was shuttered and the paint was peeling on the small church. The butcher shop was open, flies buzzing around the door, but there was only one person looking over the cuts of meat inside, just the proprietor, who glared at them across the counter. Two men in overalls leaned outside the gas station, heads turning to follow them as they passed, grim and unfriendly. 

Muzzie’s shoulders were hunched practically up around his ears, and he kept close to Bucky’s elbow. “C’mon,” he muttered. “Not main street. You go up behind the houses. Nowhere too nice looking, they don’t like hobos mostly, but nowhere too run down neither, they got nothin’ to spare.” 

They followed a cross street away from the main intersection, past the dim windows of the houses. Bucky shoved his hands in his pockets, eyeing them unhappily. “So, what? We go and ask for a handout? Offer to sing and dance for a meal?” 

“No, Cab Calloway. Not the front door, who do you think you are?” Muzzie pointed to a dusty track that ran behind the row of houses, where small fenced yards were growing over in places with dandelions and brambles, and washing lines aired faded linens hanging limp in the torpid day. “You gotta go to the back door and knock, and ask if the missus has any work for you to do and could she maybe spare a bite to eat in exchange.” 

“Feels like begging,” Bucky muttered. 

“It ain’t. Bums beg. Offering to work ain’t the same.” 

“Well, you first,” Bucky gestured. 

Muzzie hesitated. “It mostly… don’t work so well for me.”

“It don’t…? Oh. Yeah, I guess. Then what do you do?” 

His mouth flattened. “Trash cans mostly.” It looked like it hurt to admit that. “Some barter.”

“That ain’t no kind of life. How long you been on the road?”

“A while.”

Bucky whistled under his breath. “Well shit. Whatever you left behind must have been pretty rough. ”

Muzzie grimaced. “You could say that. It’s all gonna be better though, when I get to my sister’s place in Buffalo. Listen, don’t worry about me. I have high hopes for you two.” He nodded at Bucky. “See if you that movie star act can get you some extra grub.”

“We’ll bring some back to you if we can,” Steve promised.

Muzzie shrugged, “Hope springs. Anyway, I’ll meet you back at camp.”

“Ok. But stay out of the way of that guy.”

“Course. I’m good at staying out of people’s way. Not getting my face bashed in is kinda my specialty.”

“That makes one of you,” Bucky muttered, and Steve elbowed him. “Ok, ok, we’ll meet you back there.” They both turned and eyed the row of houses, the scruffy backyards, the washing lines, the weeds and unpainted fences.

Squaring his shoulders, Steve lead the way to the gate of the first house, and pushed it open with a creak. At the back door he knocked and waited, Bucky lurking behind him uncomfortably. There were footsteps inside and the door was pulled open a crack, a gray haired woman peering out.

“I’m sorry to bother you ma’am, but we were hoping you had some work for us.”

“No, there’s nothing. Please go.” She shut the door with a bump.

Steve took a couple of steps back, flexing his hands. “Ok. Better luck next time.” Not looking at Bucky, he took a deep breath and headed for the next house.

The next two houses were the same, tired looking women who eyed them suspiciously through cracked doorways. A dog barked viciously at the third yard, and they gave the gate a wide berth. At the next house, a man opened the door in dirty shirt sleeves, with nicotine stained teeth that showed when he spat at them. “Get off with you!” he bellowed. “We ain’t got nothing for your kind here.” They legged it out of the yard.

Bucky’s face was tight, worry lines deepening around his mouth. “If I had wanted to keep having doors slammed in my face I would have kept looking for work in Brooklyn,” he muttered.

“We gotta eat, Buck, c’mon.” Steve drew a deep breath and pushed open the gate to the house at the end of the lane, and strode across the yard, ducking under the washing line. Stiff, dry clothes brushed his arms. The porch steps creaked under his feet. He knocked firmly.

The door was pulled open by a young woman with a baby in her arms, brown hair coming out of her bun in wisps.  “Hello?” The baby was whimpering.

“Ma’am, we were hoping we could help with some work around the place,” Steve began.

“Oh. I’m afraid we don’t… ,” she jostled the baby on her hip, “Don’t usually...My husband doesn’t like…”

“Fold your laundry for you, ma’am?” Steve interrupted. “Only I couldn’t help noticing it’s getting dusty.” 

“Well...” 

“We don’t want a handout for nothing. We’d like to help.”

There was a thud and the sound of a child yelling inside. “Oh alright, yes.” She leaned around the door, “Annie, go get the laundry basket. Michael, don’t push your sister!” Pointing at the side of the house, she added, “You two wash your hands first. Spigot’s over there.”  

Steve and Bucky washed their hands from the hose. A small girl dragged a wicker basket, almost as large as her, onto the porch, and then stood peering at them curiously until her mother hauled her indoors. “What’s she think we’re gonna do?” Bucky muttered. “Eat the kid?”

“Just fold the laundry, Buck.”

They folded the sheets out between them to keep them off the ground, and shook out the shirts and skirts to loosen the stiff fibers and brush off the worst of the dust. When they had finished, the woman brought them a tin plate of beans and bread smeared with lard. She hovered in the doorway while they ate in the shade on the porch, keeping one eye on the spoon as they passed it between them, and the other on her unruly children inside. Steve was too hungry to feel embarrassed about being eyed like a thief, or an animal in a zoo, but he could tell from Bucky’s tense shoulders that he did. 

Returning the empty tin to her hands, Steve did his best wide eyed impression of gratitude. “We can’t thank you enough, ma’am. You’ve been so good to us. I was wondering though, see, we’ve got a little brother who twisted his ankle so he can’t come working with us. Would it be too much to ask for a little something to take to him?” Her lips thinned, but he met her gaze as honestly as he could, and finally she clucked her tongue, and packed some more bread, wrapped in newspaper.  

Back in camp, Muzzie was sitting in the shade, whittling at a piece of wood with a small pocket knife. His eyes widened when Steve passed him the bread. “You swipe this?” 

“Course not. We helped a nice lady fold her washing, that’s all.” 

Muzzie eyed them like he didn’t believe it, but inhaled the food anyway. “Thanks,” he mumbled, mouth full. 

“So, we hanging around?” Bucky asked. 

“Nah.” Muzzie wiped crumbs from his mouth. “That guy- I been asking around, and he seems like the sort to come after you when you get some eyeshut. Prof says there’s an evening train that comes through headed west, and I reckon we oughtta be on it. If you gaycats think you can sleep on the rails again.” 

“Sure,” Steve said. “I can sleep anywhere after hearing this chump snoring for years.” Bucky socked him in the shoulder. 

 

They caught out in blue twilight, on the other side of town from the jungle, the three of them along with Prof and two other men also moving on. A brakeman came down the line with a lantern, checking the axles and wheels, shining the light into the cars, and they scrambled to hide in the bushes until he passed and returned to the engine. “Go, go, go,” Muzzie muttered. “Into the car before they get going, I ain’t spending tonight up top.” 

The train whistle shrilled as Bucky heaved himself into the boxcar and hauled Steve  up behind him, the locomotive lurching under them. Muzzie wriggled his way up and flopped down beside Steve, panting. Poking his head out, Steve saw the dark silhouette of someone leaning out of another car and waving. He waved back, grinning in spite of himself. He was exhausted but fed, Bucky and Muzzie were ribbing each other comfortably about their train catching grace, and he sat back with a sigh, cushioning his head on the knapsack. 

 

Steve woke in the middle of the night to Bucky shaking him. “Wha- you ok?” It was dark inside the box car, the only light spilling through the cracked door. 

“Come look at this.” 

“Look at what,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. Muzzie was asleep in a corner, a ball with elbows and knees, his cap jammed over his eyes. 

“At this.” Bucky was kneeling by the boxcar door. Outside, dark trees and bushes rushed by. 

Steve crawled over to him and peered blearily out. “What?” The night air was cool on his face. 

“ _ Look. _ ” 

Following Bucky’s finger, he looked up. “ _ Oh _ .” 

“You ever seen so many goddamn stars, Stevie?” 

“Holy shit,” Steve muttered.

“Yeah,” Bucky breathed.  

They sat in silence for a long time, leaning against one another and staring at the starry sky, rocking gently to the rhythm of the rails. 

 

Muzzie was antsy the next day, pacing around the boxcar in the narrow spaces between crates full of pipe fittings. 

“Can’t you simmer down?” Bucky griped, kicking half heartedly at Muzzie’s feet as he passed where Bucky was lounging against a stack of crates. 

All morning they had watched the fields of corn and wheat roll away, broken by small towns. Around noon the train had stopped at a water tower, and they had all hopped off to relieve themselves and exchange a few words with some of the others riding in different cars. A breakie had come down the line and they’d scattered away from the rail - impossible to hide in the sparse trees around the water tower, but he didn’t do anything except glare at them, and when he had gone back to the engine and the train whistle blew, they all scrambled aboard again. Steve sharpened a nub of pencil with Bucky’s knife. Beside him, his notebook was open but the page was blank. He was hungry again and unable to focus. 

“Look!” Muzzie was leaning out the cracked door of the boxcar, jacket flapping in the wind. The other two craned to look around him, Bucky’s arm warm and solid around Steve’s shoulder, anchoring him as they leaned off the train. 

“Wha-” Steve began, and then he saw the glittering line of water running across the horizon. “The lakes!” 

The water grew and grew as the train chugged nearer, endless like the Atlantic, an inland sea. A sooty smudge on the horizon defined itself into the haze of smoke above a town on the water’s edge. 

“Is that Buffalo?” Muzzie asked, tense against Steve’s side. 

Flipping through the pages of his notebook, Steve peered at the map he had scrawled. “I don’t think so. That must be Lake Ontario, so Rochester is still between us and Buffalo.”  

“Think this train will go straight through?” Muzzie asked. 

Bucky shrugged. “We gotta stop for something to eat anyway.”

“You can get off, but if it rolls through I’m staying on. No use catching out again to get to Buffalo.”  

“You need to eat too,” Steve protested. “You can’t go on hungry.” 

“I’ll be fine, it’s not that much farther to Buffalo. Your map shows them right close together. And it’ll be gravy when I get to my sister’s place.” 

“Are you sure?”

“I can’t stop now,” he said, bravado dropping out of his voice, leaving something serious. “I’m so close.” 

 

Rochester was a big town, not quite a city, with smoke stacks on the river and miles of squat residential houses. Everything seemed to take up more room than necessary. The train slowed as it chugged through town, and the three of them crouched in the door of the boxcar, ready to jump. The sides of buildings slid by like slides of film, a chain link fence between the rail and the backs of tenements and warehouses. The buildings dropped away and the rail yard was coming up, dusty and open, but between the tracks and sheds of the yard and the sooty backs of the industrial buildings was a shanty town. 

Tiny shelters built of scrap, bits of wood, and corrugated iron were packed together on the margin of the rail yard. Some had dented chimney pipes, while elsewhere there were cookfires outside like in the jungles. As the train rolled by Steve caught glimpses of filthy children playing in an old tire, a woman scrubbing clothes in an oil drum, a man passed out in a rocker with a toddler at his feet. Between the shacks gangly shrubs and skinny young saplings had taken root, festooned with laundry. 

Whatever was on his face made Muzzie raise an eyebrow. “Surely you’ve seen a Hooverville before?” 

There was a lump of something furious and sick in his throat. “There are trees growing. It’s been there so long there are trees.” 

Bucky said nothing, but he shifted so his shoulder pressed more firmly against Steve’s. 

The train rattled through the yard. “There’s the coal tower,” Muzzie pointed. “If we were going to stop we’d be over there. It’s a roll through.” 

“I guess that means we gotta hit the grit,” Bucky said, taking a swig from his canteen and slinging the pack over his shoulder. 

Steve frowned. “Are you sure… I mean, we could come the rest of the way with you.”

“No, you two go on.” Muzzie shoved at his shoulder. “No going hungry on account of me.”  

“Here,” Bucky lifted the canteen. “At least let us fill you up with water before you go.” 

“You don’t gotta…” 

“Shut up. We’ll get more in town and you won’t.” He held out a hand for Muzzie’s glass water bottle, and filled it to the brim, emptying his canteen. “Sure you’ll be ok?” 

“Me? It’s you new boys I’m worried about.” Muzzie clapped Bucky on the shoulder. “You gotta remember everything I taught you.” 

“We will,” Steve promised. The train whistle blew twice, sharp and short beginning to pick up speed again. 

“You two gotta go!” They jumped, feet crunching into the gravel, and legged it away from the open tracks into the shelter of the sheds. “Good luck!” Muzzie yelled after them. The signal man leaned out of the box as they ran past, swearing at them. 

At the edge of the yard they stopped and turned to watch the train rolling out. A small head was leaning out of the boxcar. Steve waved and Muzzie waved back, and then the tracks curved and he was out of sight. 

“Well. I guess it’s just you and me again.” Bucky dropped the pack and stretched, arms over his head, shirt straining across his chest. “Whaddya say, doll? Can I take you out for lunch?” Steve kicked him. 

They filled up their canteens at the hose spigot behind someone’s house, making a run for it when one of the neighbors yelled at them. 

Around the corner, Bucky stopped and swigged some of the water, rubbing his hand across his mouth and grimacing. “It’s just goddamn water,” he muttered. “They act like we’re stealing their best whiskey. Ain’t everyone got a right to drink water?” 

They wandered out of the residential neighborhood, back toward the river and the train tracks. People on the street glared at them, and Bucky rubbed his stubbled chin and straightened his clothes self consciously. Like back in Brooklyn, some of the shops were still doing good business, side by side with shuttered windows and “Closed” signs. 

A truck was pulled up to the curb behind a green grocer’s shop with its bed full of squash and roots. A boy not much older than Rebecca was unloading boxes, struggling with the bigger ones. A balding man, presumably the owner, was standing on the curb, leaning on a crutch with his foot bandaged, and haruanging the boy. 

“Excuse me,” Steve said. “Can we help?”  Without looking he could feel Bucky straightening into his best  _ strong and trustworthy _ posture. 

The man eyed them, dragging heavily on a cigar. “Bums, eh?” 

Steve was acutely aware of how grimy he was. “Just trying to make our way on the road, sir. We’d like to give you a hand. I worked in a grocer’s back home.” 

The grocer exhaled a cloud of smoke in their direction and nodded. Steve tried not to cough. “You help Timmy unload the truck and you can take all the rotting vegetables you can carry.” 

They helped the skinny boy stack the crates in the back room of the shop, with the grocer keeping a keen eye on them the whole time. Sweat plastered Steve’s hair to his forehead, and his lower back ached by the time they were done, but when they had finished the grocer gestured them to a crate of browning apples, soft squash, green potatoes, carrots and parsnips growing mold. They filled their pack until it was lumpy and heavy with vegetables, even taking out their jackets and slinging them over their shoulders in the heat of the day to make more room. 

The only place to go was back to the rail yard. “Want to try to catch out today?” Bucky asked as they walked. 

“Maybe. Want to cook some of this up first.”

“We ain’t got a pot.” 

“What are you, a quitter?” Steve rolled his eyes, and stopped behind a diner to fish in the trash for a tin can, coming up with a large empty tin still smelling strongly of tomato sauce. “Easy as pie.” 

Behind them a door slammed open. “You boys get outta my trash! Little rats!” 

After dodging around the corner, Steve bent over, panting. “We gotta stop meeting people like that.” 

“You okay?” Bucky had a hand on his back. 

“Yeah, fine.” He drew a deep breath to prove it, and wheezed a little when it was too deep.  

“Easy, champ.” 

“Bucky I’m  _ fine. _ I’m not going to keel over.” 

“Ok, ok, never said you were. We got a cook pot now, let’s go make some soup.” 

 

The sun was sliding down the sky when they reached the Hooverville, casting long shadows in the dust between the shacks. A handful of children ran from them and hid behind a pile of trash. Tired looking men leaned in doorways and watched them pass. Women with hollow cheeks bounced wailing babies and eyed them with the same indifference. They passed a shack with one side covered in magazine cutouts, faded and weathered but once bright, tacked in a careful collage. A chained dog yapped at them. 

Behind two shanties there was a small group of men around a cook fire. They nodded, friendly enough, as Steve and Bucky joined them. Using Bucky’s pocket knife they cut the rotted spots out of a handful of the carrots and small squash and put them in the tomato tin. One of the men shifted a pair of potatoes wrapped in foil to make room for their can in the coals of the fire. 

“What I wouldn’t give for a hot dog,” Bucky sighed. 

“ _ Moi aussi, _ ” one of the men agreed. He was short but handsome under the scruff of stubble and dirt on his face. “Even Spam. American abomination.” 

“Canadian?” Bucky asked. 

“Born and bred. But I couldn’t resist the charm of this center of culture and luxury.” He gestured to the camp. “I’m one of the founding members, you know.” 

Another man laughed. “That’s Antoine, Journeyman iron worker, unemployed since 1929. I’m Harold Lewis, metallurgy, at your service.” 

“You’ve been living here for five years?” Steve asked, nodding to the shacks and the rail yard.

“ _ Ce n’est pas si grave.  _ The company is good,” Antoine shrugged. “And plenty of coal to steal from Union Pacific. Even if the bulls come after us with clubs when they have a bad day.” 

Harold nodded. “At least it hasn’t been bulldozed.” 

“Bulldozed?” Steve repeated. 

“Yeah, some cities come in every few months and knock the Hoovervilles down. Here people get arrested sometimes but the sheriff always lets folks off with a warning. This town is one of the good ones.” 

“I remember when that happened in Red Hook,” Bucky said. “There was a Hooverville down by the docks. I used to walk through it every day on the way to work, and one day it was just gone. In pieces.”

Steve frowned at him. “You didn’t tell me.” 

“What was I supposed to tell you? It’s just a thing that happened.”

“I wanna hear about things that happen.” 

“I knew it would upset you.” 

“You don’t have to protect me all the time.” 

Bucky snorted and got to his feet. “Gonna take a piss.” He stalked away from the fire. The other men had looked away, giving them hobo’s privacy. 

Glaring into the fire, Steve watched their stew, feeling the hollow ache of hunger and wondering when it would be ready, and then remembering his mother’s instructions about a watched pot he pulled his notebook out of the pack instead. He stared down at the blank page, hand clenched around his pencil so his fingers hurt. There was nothing in his head but the image of bulldozers tearing town the shanty decorated with magazine cutouts. His hand moved. 

He sketched a shack, with the rough suggestion of other shanties behind it, a whole town, and drew a bulldozer with a furious, fat man in the seat, yelling. At the bottom, after thinking for a moment, he wrote “You’re lucky we don’t hang you! This is one of the good towns.” Chewing on his pencil, he added two skinny children running away from the bulldozer. 

Antoine passed behind his shoulder with a steaming mug of something that smelled like acetone. “ _ Pas mal.  _ Can I see that?” 

“What, this?” Steve looked down at the notebook. “I guess.” 

The man lifted the book out of his hands and let out a barking laugh. “Hey Harold,  _ regarde-ca _ ,  _ le garcon  _ listened to your civics lesson.” 

Harold peered at the page and grinned. “That’s not bad, son. Funny, even.” He took the notebook, examining the drawing and then thumbed through the earlier sketches. Steve stiffened, thinking of the drawings of Bucky, urgently cataloguing in his mind the drawings he had done recently. Nothing explicit of course, he never put any of his fantasies on paper, even if he wanted to sometimes. But would the care and detail in his sketches give him away? His feelings were so obvious to himself, in every stroke of the pencil, surely someone else would see them too. 

Harold stopped on a drawing of Bucky leaning over the table back in his mother’s kitchen. Steve’s heart pounded. “This is pretty good stuff. It’s not all cartoons. Hey, look at this, Bob.” He leaned over to show the book to another man in a battered fedora. 

“Huh.” Bob looked at the page. “You can draw anything?” 

Steve shrugged. “Most things?”

“Think you could draw me a picture of a girl?” 

"Sure, who?"

"I mean, nobody particular. I can't say I'll be looking too hard at her face."

“...Oh. You mean, like… a blue sketch?” 

“Yeah.” He grinned, showing gapped teeth. “I ain’t seen a good dirty picture since I left Philly and that’s a damn shame.” 

“I. I guess I could. I don’t… I’m not sure...”

“Never seen a girl without her knickers on?” 

“Don’t tease him if he doesn’t want to be part of your depravity,” Harold scolded. 

Steve blushed painfully. “I can draw it.” Living in close quarters with his mother and the Barneses, he’d seen women of all ages naked, in simple, homey ways. And a couple of times he had read small, badly printed tijuana bibles, showing much more explicit depictions of women’s bodies. He had a good memory for images, and thought he could produce something passable. “What’ve you got to trade?” 

Antoine man snorted. “Bobby’s got  _ rien du tout _ . I, on the other hand, have a sack of dry beans I would trade for a good picture to keep me warm at night. Think you can draw a Quebecoise girl?” 

“I don’t know,” Steve swallowed. “Are they different than New York girls?” 

All three men laughed. “Someone start a party without me?” Bucky asked, returning. 

“Your friend is going to draw me a  _ bella fille Quebecoise  _ like I left back home,” Antoine announced. “Big ass, little tits.” 

“Ah no,” Bobby booed. “Gotta have knockers you could bury your face in.” 

“If you want American extravagences you can commission your own artist,” Antoine sniffed. “No,  _ les petites tetons _ , like you could hold in one hand.” 

Face burning, Steve reclaimed his sketchbook and bent over the page. They were all watching him, and Bucky was grinning. His mind was blank. He could see a woman standing before him like an anatomy sketch, but where was the titillation in that? What should she be doing? What position to put her in? 

Suddenly he remembered a night at a dancehall in Bed-Stuy. Bucky had been dancing with the prettiest girl in the room like always, a tiny redhead with wide hips. Steve hadn't even minded no one looking at him twice, because it meant he was free to watch them; spinning across the floor, feet flying, her skirt whirling out like a flag around their legs, Bucky's sure hands on her waist. They had gone to the bar sweaty and smiling, and Bucky had ordered her a drink. She had leaned back with her elbows on the bar facing the room, and Steve had seen her nipples standing up under the white fabric of her blouse and had gotten hard. Her breasts had been small, Steve remembered, but perfect. 

Slowly he began to sketch, partly from memory, partly from imagination: a woman lounging naked, arms propped on a vaguely sketched bar or counter behind her, long legs like a dancer, small, high breasts. Extravagant, curly hair, drawn with a twinge of guilt from the sketches he had done in class, sitting behind Louise Minnelli who had the most beautiful brown curls he’d ever seen. With the outline finished, he drew her features - coy eyes, lips curved in a smile like he imagined a French girl would grin, then added the curls between her legs and shaded her nipples. 

Then he carefully tore the page out of his notebook and handed it over to Antoine, cheeks pink. Everyone crowded around to see. 

“Oh, la la,” Harold laughed. “Not bad for ten minutes work.” 

“ _ C’est bon, c’est tres bon _ ,” grinned Antoine. “ _ Merci beaucoup _ . Although you have made her hair very  _ Americaine. _ ” 

“Tits are too small,” Bobby said.

Antoine plucked it out of his hands. “It is too good for  _ un philistin _ like you. You do not appreciate nice things.”

“Sure I do. Those are some hips a man could hold onto.” 

“Harold, tell him,  _ le petite _ figure is artistically superior, and  _ pas pornographique _ .” 

“Looks pornographic to me,” Harold said. “Wouldn’t want my wife to catch me with it, or I’d commission one myself.” 

“Alright, alright,” Bucky interrupted. “The artist is retiring for dinner. Soups up.” 

 

Night was lit by the fires of the iron foundry and the lamps in the rail yard. Feeling full and sleepy, Steve found himself leaning on Bucky's shoulder. “Time for bed, champ?” he asked, tousling his hair. “The big artist needs his rest, huh?”

“Shut up,” Steve muttered, but they went scouting for an unoccupied place to sleep that didn't smell too much like piss.

They settled in for the night under the branches of a gangly shrub, jostling for the pack under their heads. Back home, they had always slept head to foot, an unquestioned and familiar posture of propriety, but out on the road it was warmer and easier to share a jacket over both of them if they slept side by side, Steve’s back pressed against Bucky’s chest, Bucky’s arm over his shoulders. 

Sighing, Steve settled back against Bucky while pretending to readjust the lumpy pack. “You think Muzzie’s ok?” 

Bucky snorted. “I’m pretty sure that kid is brighter than both of us put together. He’ll be fine.” 

“It’d be rough, to be out here alone.” 

“Yeah.” Bucky’s arm tightened around him. “Ain’t you glad you got me?” 

Steve kicked him. “You’re the one who should be glad, asshole. Who was it trying to have this adventure on his lonesome?” 

“Who’re you calling an asshole, punk?” They tussled half heartedly until Bucky had Steve’s head pinned under his arm, breathing in the sour, sweet smell of his sweat and unwashed body, Steve still squirming. “Ow, your knee! Careful, Jesus, I need those.” 

“Sorry, sorry.” They shuffled apart a little, panting. 

Bucky rolled onto his back and sighed. “I’m lucky as hell you decided to stick with me.” 

“No getting rid of me now,” Steve said, voice soft. The words felt weighty in his mouth and he wondered if Bucky could hear it too. “You’re stuck with me to the end of the line.” 

“The end of the line huh?” In the dark, Bucky reached out an arm, fingertips resting lightly on Steve’s chest. Steve made a noise, an affirmation that got lost in the feel of Bucky’s thumb against his sternum. Bucky seemed to realize what he was doing, turned the motion into a companionable pat, and withdrew his hand. “Yeah,” he muttered. 

Overhead, the sky was muted with the city haze and light, but Steve knew now what it looked like full of stars. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This project is based on real photos! Find many of them on my Pinterest here: https://www.pinterest.com/snowycatzeda/will-there-be-any-freight-trains-in-heaven/


	4. Chicago IL

###  Chicago IL 

The journey from Rochester to Chicago took only two days. With Antoine’s beans  and the rotting vegetables, they had plenty of food, but they had to stop to cook and fill up their canteens. They’d slept one night in a camp between the tracks and the shore of Lake Eerie, slapping mosquitoes constantly, and another in an empty grain car. Steve thought he still had chaff in his hair like a bumpkin - there had been no water to wash with as the streams and creeks turned filthy through Cleveland and toward Chicago. The dust and leftover chaff had made Steve sneeze horribly, but the stars had been visible all night through the open top of the car. 

Chicago was huge, sooty, and unfamiliar. They tumbled off the train along with a dozen others outside a railyard on the south side, and got chased by a railroad bull until Steve’s lungs were burning and even Bucky was panting. They ended up in a run-down tenement neighborhood, where people gave them dirty looks and mothers pulled their children closer as they passed. 

Bucky rubbed his unshaven face self-consciously. “Guess we don’t look like city slickers anymore.” 

“We’re never gonna find work,” Steve agreed. 

“I hate this,” Bucky muttered. “I don’t know where there’s trouble and where there’s not. At least back home I knew my way around, what to look out for. Here, I don’t know what’s around the corner, much less what’s gonna upset people.” 

“I know.” Steve hunched his shoulders, returning the unfriendly glare of four rumpled young men leaning outside a tobacconists’. He was hungry, always hungry, dirty and sore. “This is like New York but worse.” 

“Well of course,” Bucky sounded so offended that Steve snorted a laugh in spite of himself. “It’s  _ Chicago. _ ” 

 

They found a jungle under an overpass, and at least that felt familiar. It was dirtier and more crowded than any of the camps they had been in on the road, even the Hooverville in Rochester. Elevated trains ran overhead every seven minutes with a deafening rumble, engulfing them  in smoke and coal dust. Steve felt his lungs closing up. He had hardly noticed after leaving Brooklyn that it was easier to breathe, but he hadn’t had an asthma attack since they left, and now he felt on the verge of one all the time, a panicky tight feeling in his chest. 

Not everyone here was a transient either, not like the jungles on the road. There were families, women and children, crying babies. No one looked twice at them as they slotted themselves into an empty space by a cook fire. 

Steve pulled his canteen out of their pack and sloshed the inch or so of water in the bottom, frowning. A tall man with a friendly face and chapped, brown hands noticed. “Church a few blocks over’ll let you use the spigot. Baptists.” He jerked his head east. “Where’re you two from?”

“New York.” 

“Oh  _ New Yawk, _ ” the man mimicked, but he was grinning. He wore a stocking cap and a wool flannel that had once been red. “I’d take you out for pizza if I had a penny to my name.”  

“Nah, we ain’t masochists,” Steve said, and group around the fire hooted. “Thanks though.” 

“The mouth on the little guy,” one of them chortled, elbowing his buddy. 

Bucky slung an arm across his shoulders, casual and possessive. “Ain’t you heard? Mouthing off’s the official Brooklyn pastime. Steve’s an all star.” 

“Three time league champion,” Steve said, straightfaced. 

The man in the stocking cap laughed. “So, you’re on the road? Looking for work, right? Yeah, ain’t everybody. Well, I gotta break it to you, unless you’re going for a career in vaudeville, there ain’t nothing here. More hands than jobs, if you know what I mean.”

“Hey, I think I can see myself on the stage,” Bucky said. “Whaddya think?” He batted his eyelashes. “Should I look for a career change?” 

“With that mug? We’d starve.” Steve was already dodging when Bucky punched him. “I don’t think we could stay in  _ Chicago _ anyway,” he added. “We gotta find some food before we head out though.”  

“Hot dinner every night at Sally’s,” someone across the fire offered. “Down at 69th and Green. The line’ll be around the block, and the porridge is always burnt, but at least it fills your stomach.” 

“69th and Green, huh?” Bucky nudged Steve’s foot. “Whaddya say, want to play like we never left home and go stand in a soup line?” 

“Your Ma’d died of shame if she saw us in a soup line on Flushing Avenue.” 

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing she’d never have the bad taste to come to Chicago.” Bucky held up a finger. “And none of you’s is to tell her, you hear? You ever come to your senses and move to New York, don’t go telling people you saw us taking handouts.” 

 

By the time they arrived at 69th, Steve’s feet hurt and his breath was raspy. He’d forgotten how trekking around a city made your calves and the soles of your feet ache in a way that hiking along a rail line didn’t. Bucky was looking at him worriedly, probably listening to his breathing, but he didn’t say anything. When they found the Salvation Army, there was a cluster around the door rather than a line. 

“What’s going on?” Bucky craned his head. 

A teenager with a dirty face turned to look at them. “Someone up front said they’re closed. Guess someone got sick, and they don’t have the staff to open the place?” The crowd was grumbling, hungry and resentful. A baby began to cry, and someone shushed it, but the wail went on. 

“Come on.” Steve began to shoulder his way forward “Excuse me. Pardon me. Excuse me.” 

“Where’re you going?” Bucky called. “Hey, wait up Stevie!” 

There was a large sign over the door that read “ _ SALVATION ARMY - Daily worship service and hot meal”  _

Beneath the sign was a window with a hand-lettered cardboard sign saying “CLOSED INDEFENETLY” 

Steve tapped on the window, and tapped again when there was no response. A small girl with puffy black pigtails poked her head out and scowled at him. “Look, I told the other man, we can’t take no one today. Ma is sick. Y’all gotta go away.” 

“We can help. We aren’t just useless bums, you know, we’re good men and we’ve got skills.” She made a doubtful face at him. Her eyes were red like she’d been crying. “Let us help, you shouldn’t have to be all alone. What’s wrong with your Ma?” 

“Nothing you can help with,” she said. “She’s having dizzy spells, today’s so bad she can’t stand up.” 

Steve turned to the crowd and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey! Hey! Listen everyone!” 

Bucky put his fingers to his mouth and whistled shrilly. The group fell silent. “Listen up,” he barked. 

“Anyone here a doctor, or got medical experience?” Steve shouted. “The lady in here is having dizzy spells and her daughter is worried.” 

A couple of hesitant hands went up, and Steve pointed to them. “Ok, you and you, come up here.” There was a shuffling as the men came forward, and Steve turned back to the girl. “Is that alright with you?” 

She bit her lip. She was young, maybe Becca’s age. 

“What’s your name?” Bucky asked quietly, in the same tone he used on his sisters. 

“Annabelle.”  

“Good to meetcha, Annabelle. I’m James, this here is Steve.” He held out a hand. “We want to help. Will you let us?” 

Annabelle hesitated, and then grasped his large hand in her tiny one, gave it a limp shake, and stood back to open the door. “Ma’s right through there. I made her lie down on one of the cots.” 

“Not to worry, miss,” one of the medical men said, taking off his hat. Annabelle cracked a small, worried smile. 

“Miss,” Steve said, as she turned to follow them. “The rest of us can help too. I know how to cook, and I bet some of these other guys do too. We need a place to stay and you need some extra hands around the place. There’s women and children out here too.” 

The girl peered around the door at the quiet crowd, and then nodded. 

Steve turned to the crowd again. “How many of you can peel potatoes?” Almost all the hands went up. “How many of you can scrub a floor?” Again, a sea of hands. “Alright, this is how it’s going to be. The lady who runs the place is sick, so we’re going to go in there like real quiet guests, and we’re going to cook a big dinner for everyone, and tidy the place up. There’ll be no drinking out of your flasks and no being impolite to each other or these ladies.”

“Salvation Army’s got a new captain tonight,” someone said in a stage whisper. 

Steve pointed in their direction. “If you can’t be respectful, you can go somewhere else tonight. Understand?” 

“Yessir!” yelled the voice, and there was a ripple of laughter. “Understood, sir!” 

“Alright, cook team report to me in the kitchen.” He pointed at Bucky “This is head of cleaning, you meet him in the dorm room and keep your voices down because the Missus is resting. Any questions?” 

“Nossir!” yelled the wag in the crowd. 

“And wipe your boots when you come in!” Steve shouted. 

 

The kitchen echoed with voices and the clatter of pots and pans. It was breathlessly hot with the range burning and two dozen people crammed inside. Steve was glad to be up to his elbows in cold water scrubbing potatoes. He was pretty sure no one was going to lose a finger chopping vegetables while his back was turned. 

His cheerful heckler had ended up on the cooking team. He was a red-haired young man, with gapped teeth in his wide grin. He sidled up beside Steve at the sink. “You wash and I’ll peel, Cap?” He flipped a pocket knife in his hand. 

“Thanks.” Steve rolled the clean potatoes across the counter to him.  “Make sure you get the green spots.” 

The man rolled his eyes. “What do I look, Italian? I know potatoes.” 

“Irish?” Steve asked. 

“Guilty as charged.” 

“Me too. My Ma came over in 1914.” Steve started to dry his hands on his trousers, realized they were filthy, and just shook the water off them instead. 

“Oh yeah? Whereabouts?” 

“Cork County. I was born in Brooklyn.” 

“Captain New York, eh? I’d never have guessed,” Irish drawled. “My family’s from Tipperary but I’m a Chicago boy, born and bred.”

“You live in the city?” 

“Oh yeah. I ain’t homeless. I just come by Sally’s when I need a hot meal and feel strong enough to handle the Protestantism.”

Steve choked on laughter. “Well, you’d better get cracking then,” he wheezed. “Even Protestants don’t believe that Jesus could turn raw potatoes cooked by standing around jawing.”  

Once they’d gotten two huge pots of potatoes, carrots, onions and beans on to boil, there wasn’t much to do but wait. Steve left the bread pudding under the supervision of a dour man who had done mess duty in the Navy, and went to check in “with the other battalion,” Irish joked. 

Steve made his way into the dormitory, picking his way around icebergs of soap suds that littered the wet floor. Bucky nodded to him. Annabelle was sitting beside her sleeping mother on a cot in the only dry patch. Around them, Bucky’s squad was mopping as quietly as possible. The two men who had volunteered as doctors were both army medics from the war, men with graying hair and lined faces. “How is she?” Steve asked softly. “Do you know what’s wrong?” 

“Ear infection,” one of them said, with a tired smile. “It should clear up on it’s own, there’s not much we can do except rest and a warm washcloth for the pain.” 

The other man nodded. “No wonder the kid was scared. Dizziness, nausea, disorientation. Fever.” 

Bucky came up behind them. “You don’t have to tell us. Stevie’s half deaf on this side from having ear infections non stop as a kid.” He clapped a hand over Steve’s right ear and Steve shoved him. “Remember that time when you were eight and you couldn’t walk across a room for almost a week without puking?”

“Yeah, thanks for the reminder,” Steve grimaced. He thanked the doctors and returned to the kitchen. Irish, showing admirable initiative, was leading the washing up. Steve checked on the bread pudding in the oven. Due to a lack of eggs, they had improvised with condensed milk, so the pudding was a little soupy looking, but it smelled delicious. Steve’s stomach rumbled. It had been a little over a week since they’d left home, since he’d last had a hot meal that wasn’t cooked in a tomato can, and he wondered how much longer it had been for some of the men around him. 

“Hey, Captain, Sarge wants some more hot water.” Steve turned. A tall, dark haired man was standing behind him, holding a bucket. 

Steve blinked. “Sarge? Oh, Bucky. Water. Yes.” The man had a square jaw and a generous mouth curved up in a smile, eyes creased in amusement. Steve swallowed and dragged his gaze away, toward the large range at the end of the kitchen. “Irish, put on another pot of water to boil,” he yelled.

“Aye, aye, Cap!” Irish called back.  

“It’ll take a little while to heat up,” Steve said. 

“I’ve got time.” The man leaned against the counter beside Steve, crossing his feet at the ankles. His trousers and jacket were as patched and dirty as anyone’s, but they fit him well. “Mind if I keep you company while I wait?” Steve shook his head. “My name’s Guy. I’ve heard all the jokes, believe me.” He looked a little older than Bucky, in his early twenties maybe, and his self deprecating grin made Steve smile back helplessly. “So what’s your story, Captain? What brings a New Yorker out of your precious city?”

“That obvious huh?” 

Guy nodded, solemnly. “I’ve got ears.” 

Steve laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, the same thing anyone’s doing. Trying to make ends meet.”

“Staying in Chicago long?” 

“Are you kidding?” 

“Sorry, that was a stupid question.” He laughed at Steve’s exaggerated expression. “I’ve been here a week but I think I’m headed out too. There’s better work out west at this time of year.” 

“Have you been on the road long?” Steve asked. 

The corner of his mouth turned up. “Year and a half now. Been around the whole country twice. Know a trick or two.” 

“Where are you headed next?” 

“Wyoming. Then California, probably. Wherever the rails take me.” 

“We’re going through Wyoming too.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Well, I always enjoy a travelling companion.” 

Shifting, Steve looked down at this hands. “Bucky and I will be catching out tomorrow.” 

“Bucky? Oh, yes. You two are traveling together?” 

Steve nodded. “We've been friends since we were kids.” 

“Mmm.” Guy gave him a considering look that made Steve feel just a little too warm. 

“Captain!” someone called, and Steve turned, grateful for the interruption. “Come taste this soup!” 

 

They all crammed around the freshly scrubbed tables in the mess, beneath the wooden cross on the wall. Annabelle tugged Steve's sleeve. “We can't start the meal before having a service. It's the rules.”

“Who usually does the service?” Steve asked. 

“Reverend Pickerson, but he broke his his hip last month. Mrs. Lewis has been leading a prayer, but she's gone this week because of her new grandbaby.” 

“Well I can't do it.” He looked around at Bucky, who shrugged. “Is it important?” 

“It's the Salvation Army,” Annabelle said, like he was slow. “How're we supposed to save people if we don't have any God?” 

“A hot meal’d be a good start,” Bucky muttered. 

“Alright.” Steve raised his voice. “Listen up!” 

“Listen up,” Bucky bellowed, and the room fell silent. 

 

A man with a missing arm and a sweet, clear voice led them in a short prayer, and then Steve and Irish supervised serving the soup and potatoes. Eventually, Bucky pulled him aside and yanked the ladle out of his hand. “C’mon, you're dead on your feet.” He deposited Steve with a bowl of soup on a bench beside Annabelle. It was true, his feet and back ached from standing, lifting and scrubbing. 

“Is it just you and your Ma running this place?” Steve asked, spooning soup into his mouth.

“Mrs. Director runs it.” Annabelle shrugged. “But doing the cooking and cleaning and all? Keeping the doors open, like? Yeah, me and Ma.”

“Your Ma is going to need rest the next few weeks. Is there anyone you can ask for help?” 

Annabelle bit her lip. Her eyes were large and dark, young. “Ma will manage. Mrs. Director will be back, and if Ma can’t work she'll lose the job.” 

“I thought this was a charity.” 

“What's that to do with anything?” 

Steve’s fingers clenched around his spoon. “What if someone else could help with the work? Like, part time work maybe, till your Ma is better.” 

“I don't know. Maybe if Mrs. Director said yes.”

Steve looked across the room to where Irish’s red head was bobbing. 

Bucky dropped onto the bench next to him. “You’re scheming.” 

“Who, me?”

“Yeah you. I am an expert on Steve Rogers’ scheming. I heard Father McNair say so to your Ma once.”

“Just trying to help Annabelle out until her Ma is better, and I was talking to a local earlier who could use some work.”

“Oh, ain't even been here a day and already talking to locals! Look at you, going native. I'm not gonna have to leave you here, am I? I can't be traveling with a Chicagoer. Chicago-itte? Chicogoean?” Steve shoved him and he spilled soup on the table top. “Hey! I just scrubbed this, asshole!” 

Someone had switched on the radio, and the jazzy strains of an Andrew Sisters song filled the room. Bucky shoveled soup in his mouth. “Aw, I ain’t heard the radio since we left civilization.” He eyed the room. “I bet some folks here know how to dance.” 

Finishing his bowl, bucky pushed back from the table, and joined the small congregation around the radio. Steve pulled out his sketchbook. Frowning at the page, he drew a sick woman holding a broom to keep her upright, and a man in a priest's collar pointing her at a door labelled “Unemployment.” The caption was “No rest for the wicked”, but wicked was crossed out and replaced with “poor”. 

There was hooting and clapping across the room, and Steve looked up to see Bucky twirling a tall young man. It wasn’t uncommon, especially in some parts of Brooklyn, to see the really skilled male dancers dancing together. Bucky said you got bored sometimes with one role, that it was fun to learn how to switch.

Whatever he said about it, it always made Steve’s heart pound, watching. They weren’t close dancing, just spinning each other around with their feet kicking, but they were both in their shirt sleeves and suspenders, sweat sticking their shirts to their backs, strong hands clasping.

Flipping to a new page, he began to sketch the pair; Bucky broad and solid, his partner slender and tall. Their legs, their hands. Then, with a knot under his breast bone, he added a swirl of skirt and a flounce of long hair. 

Someone slid onto the bench beside him, shoulders not quite bumping. “Thanks for dinner.” It was Guy. “What are you drawing?” Steve showed him. Guy made a soft, considering noise, looking up at the dancers and back at the page.  “You're good. Really good.” 

Steve’s cheeks felt warm and he made a face. “Are you going to ask me to draw you a naked girl?”

He barked a startled laugh. “No. Is that something you do?” 

“No. Only, for trades, you know.” 

“Not for me.” Touching the graphite lines lightly, his fingers lingered on Bucky’s back, his narrow waist, and he looked up across the room again. “That's your friend?” Guy asked. 

“Yes.” 

The thoughtful expression on his face made Steve skin prickle, and he pulled the sketchbook back toward him, snapping it shut. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, socialism, and Bucky being an angsty muffin.


	5. On the Road (Somewhere in the Midwest)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve gets to know a new friend, Bucky is Very Unhappy, and there are some lesbians.

Chicago was a smoky blur on the horizon behind them, and Steve’s breath was coming easier as they rolled through Wisconsin. The gentle hills were covered in fields and crop land, the grass already parching in the summer heat, only the glossy fields of corn and the clusters of trees still green. Bucky’s feet dangled off the side of the car, his shoulder against Steve’s. “Who knew corn was so tall?”

Steve chewed on the end of his pencil, keeping a tight grip on his sketchbook as the wind fluttered the pages. “I bet anybody here’d say the same about the Empire State Building.” 

“That’s supposed to be tall, numbskull.” Bucky waved a hand at the fields. “This is just… fat grass.” 

Steve snorted, and turned the notebook around so Bucky could see what he’d been drawing - a little cartoon of Bucky scowling up at an enormous stalk of corn and saying, “Whachya lookin’ at pal?” - and then ducked as Bucky elbowed him. “Hey! Hey!”

They rocked together, tussling, in the open doorway of the boxcar, but Bucky’s arm was strong around his shoulders, holding him steady, even as he tickled Steve with the other hand. “What’re you saying, huh? Huh?”

Steve was laughing so hard he could barely breath. “You’re sitting here glaring at the corn like it called your Ma a name,” he gasped. 

“Look at it! It’s a freak of nature.” He gestured indignantly, setting Steve off again. 

“Careful, Cap, you look about to fall off the train.” A shadow passed across their shoulders as Guy crouched down on Steve’s other side, steadying himself with one hand on the boxcar door. “What’re you two howling about?”

“Nothing,” Bucky said shortly. Steve started at the sudden change in Bucky’s tone. 

Guy raised his eyebrows. “Only I saw someone get pushed off a train once, in Kentucky.” 

“I’m not gonna let him fall.” Bucky sat back, arm still around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him a little further into the car. His voice was cold. 

“Buck, c’mon. It’s fine. Of course I wasn’t going to fall.” Steve shrugged off his hands and offered Guy an apologetic smile. 

Bucky had taken an immediate dislike to Guy, for no good reason Steve could see, but he had grumpily agreed to catch out of Chicago with him. They’d had an argument in hissed voices behind a stack of barrels in the rail yard. “He’s been on the road for ages,” Steve had said, “He’ll be helpful to have around.” 

“We’d get by just fine.” 

“We’d never have made it out of New York without Muzzie.” 

“Well now we have,” Bucky had snapped. “And I don’t see why we need anyone else.” 

“There’s no harm in having company,” Steve had said. “What’s wrong with him?” 

Bucky had glowered, but said nothing, and they had hopped on a westbound freight with Guy and two other men in the boxcar. Guy had been nothing but friendly, not seeming offended by Bucky’s chilly attitude, telling Steve stories about the road and growing up in California, until Steve couldn’t ignore Bucky’s silence any longer and went over to coax him out of his reverie. 

 

They tumbled off the train outside a mid-sized town with smokestacks on a river, where there was a jungle by the railroad trestle bridge. It was late afternoon and a handful of men were gathered around two fires. Guy dropped his bag near one, and stretched. “Home sweet home.” Steve looked away from the pull of his shirt across his abdomen. 

Bucky shook his canteen, listening to the pitiful slosh in the bottom. “Think we can get room service?” 

Guy was talking to one of the other travellers, a tall man with a battered cap, and gestured them over. “This is Newt, he thinks there’s nothing to be had in this town. Newt, meet Cap and Bucky.”

Newt spat to one side. “Wish you better luck than I had.” 

They walked into town, dust from the track making Steve’s throat feel tight. The sluggish breeze off the river carried the stink of sewage and did nothing to cool the afternoon air. No one paid them more attention than a few dirty looks as they wandered into a residential neighborhood.

“We’ve got to split up,” Guy said. “No one’s gonna open the door to three men. Too threatening.” 

“You two maybe,” Steve muttered. “Nobody thinks I’m threatening.” 

Guy raised an eyebrow, glancing him over. “I think you’ve got hidden depths.” 

There was a clatter, and Steve jumped, but it was just Bucky shifting things roughly in their pack before slinging it over his shoulder. “Let’s go.” His face was grim and set, and Steve felt a pang of sympathy. Bucky really didn’t like begging door to door. No matter what Muzzie said about it being honest work for trade, Steve knew that’s how Bucky felt. 

They split up, knocking on doors down one street after another, with no luck at any of them. At one house there was a girl hardly older than Steve with a gaunt face and a huge pregnant belly. She wouldn’t open the door more than a crack but she pointed him around the side of the house to fill his canteen. After getting a dozen doors slammed in his face, Steve met Bucky back in a dusty alley. They split a hunk of hard bread Bucky had managed to charm out of someone, mouthing at it until pieces softened enough to bite off, washing it down with water. The sun was sinking, the afternoon light taking on a gold hue. 

Down the road they heard a scuffle of footsteps, and an old lady’s tremulous voice raised. “Out! Out, get out!” Guy came around the corner at a jog, and halted beside them, dust settling. He shrugged at their expressions. “No luck. You?” 

“No more than you.” Bucky palmed the last chunk of bread into his pocket, speaking over Steve before he could open his mouth. “Another part of town?” 

They wandered through a rundown neighborhood where some of the houses were boarded up, yards filled with trash and weeds. Barefoot children watched them cautiously from behind rickety gates and laundry hung limp in the dust. 

At the end of the lane Guy halted suddenly, and pointed. “This one.” It was a small house with peeling paint, but with a well-kept vegetable patch by the stoop. 

“How do you know?” Steve asked. 

Guy tapped the wooden fence. Streaks of rust stained the paint below the gate hinges. Someone had chalked the figure 18 in a shaky hand on the gate beside the latch. Guy grinned. “Road sign. I ate. See?” 

“Huh.” 

All three of them traipsed up to the porch and knocked. After a long pause, a woman answered the door. She was a little younger than Mrs. Barnes, but there was already gray in her brown braid. “Hello? Oh.”

Steve had a sense for what that response meant, but Guy pressed on. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but we were hoping you might have a bit of work for us.” 

The woman sighed, smoothing down her apron. “I’m afraid we haven’t got much to spare right now.” 

Another person entered the kitchen behind her, and Steve tried not to stare, because she was wearing trousers and suspenders, her shirtsleeves rolled up to her elbows. There was grease on her hands and stains on her knees, and her hair was knotted back in a bun. “What’s this, Deb?” 

“Just some boys looking for food.” 

“Surely we’ve got something for them.” 

“I’m afraid I won’t have enough flour to make bread this week as it is.” Deb rubbed her hands on her apron. Her knuckles were red and swollen, hard worked. 

“Damn.”  

“I wish we could do more for you,” the woman who’d opened the door sighed. “It’s been a rough couple of weeks. We don’t have as much to give as we normally do.” 

The other woman nodded. “I’m out of work again, and I think I’m running out of people in this town who’ll hire me.” 

Guy was watching them both with an expression Steve couldn’t discern. “I think I know how that goes. Trying to live… your best life in a town like this.” 

The woman in trousers gave him a sharp look, and and he held her gaze, expression serious, and then smiled suddenly. “I’m Guy. This is Cap and Bucky.” 

“Maude. This is Deborah.” She reached out to shake his hand. 

“It’s good to meet you both.”

“Likewise.” Maude looked the three of them over, and Steve wondered what she was seeing. “You all travelling together then?” 

“Just temporarily,” Bucky said. 

“I see. Well, it’s not often we meet nice young men like you.” Her eyes swept back to Guy, and Steve thought he saw Guy nod at her. “I’d like to put something in your stomachs before you go. Deb, you sure we don’t have anything for them?” 

“There are some radishes and carrots I pulled up this morning. I was going to trade for some eggs from Elijah and April.” But she crossed to the sink and pulled the roots out of a bowl of water. 

“Can we do anything in trade?” Bucky asked. “I don’t want to take handouts.” 

“That’s kind, but we do alright by ourselves,” Deborah said as she scrubbed dirt off the radishes and carrots. “I don’t need a trade to feed children who come to my door.” Bucky’s brow creased and she caught his expression. “I’ve got a daughter older than you, so I’m afraid you all look like children to me,” she added. 

“You’ve got a daughter?” Steve asked. 

“Lives with her father. Tell you what, let me boil these up, they’ll be more filling that way. I think I have some old oats and a bit of lard. It’ll only take a bit for the water to heat.” She bustled to the sink again to fill a pot. 

Maude smiled at her back, small and fond. “We don’t have company much, especially times like these. I’d invite you in but…” she gestured to the small table in the kitchen and the two spindly chairs. “Let’s sit on the porch.” 

“Thanks.” Guy settled on the porch steps and looked up at the house. “This is a nice place. Did you work on it yourselves?” 

Deborah emerged from the kitchen, wiping her damp hands on her apron. “Maude fixed it up after my papa died and left the place to me. Thought we might sell it and turn a penny, move somewhere, but then…” She shrugged. “1929.”  

“You do good work.” 

Maude nodded in acknowledgement, leaning against the doorframe. “The townsfolk like my work but they don’t always like me.” 

Guy nodded thoughtfully, chin in his hands. “Some places are better than others, but nowhere is perfect.” 

Deborah sighed. “We thought maybe a big city, you know, but I’d miss having a garden. Anyway, I want to stay close to my daughter, even though I can’t see her.”

“Why not?” Steve asked. 

Her lips pursed. “I left, and her father didn’t like that. Since she stayed with him, he gets to say when I see her. So I don’t.” She rubbed her hands on her apron, restless and habitual. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve and Guy both murmured, and glanced at one another. 

“I’d have taken her with me in a heartbeat, but I couldn’t keep a job. No one wants to hire a woman with a baby. Her father has good work as an accountant. I’d rather have her fed and safe without me, than hungry with me.” 

Maude reached out and squeezed Deborah’s arm quickly, then released her. Deborah gave her a tight smile. “I’m going to check on the water.” 

As she disappeared inside, Maude slouched against the side of the house, fiddling with the cuffs of her shirt sleeves. “It’s not been easy for her. But Anna’s almost grown now, your age. Maybe someday she’ll start thinking for herself and decide to get to know her mother.” 

“I hope so,” Guy said. There was a silence as they all studied their hands and looked around the yard. Inside they could hear the _ thunk, thunk _ of a knife dicing carrots. The garden was growing vigorous, leggy tomato plants covered with tiny yellow flowers. Down the street a dog barked. 

Maude shook her head. “Enough about us. Tell me about yourselves.” 

Guy recounted what Steve already knew - he was from California, had been all around the country for a couple of years. “I’m the only son in my family,” he added. “Guess I was a bit of a disappointment.” Maude clucked her tongue. 

Bucky told a couple of his favorite stories about scrapes he’d gotten Steve out of, which reliably made people laugh. Guy and Maude were no exception, and Steve was resigned to it by now. Bucky always told the stories so they seemed fresh, even though the one about the Weisburg boys hitting a stray dog had actually happened when Steve was seven and Bucky was nine. Although it had been Edith’s idea to bite Tommy Weisburg, Bucky gave Steve full credit in his telling, but from the way his eyes went distant Steve knew he was thinking about his sisters. 

Deborah carried out three steaming bowls of gruel with lard and vegetables. It was greasy and the oats were tasteless, but the chunks of carrot were sweet, and Steve had to force himself to eat slowly. He was still hungry when he finished, fiddling with the spoon, mouth watering. 

“Thank you for the food,” Bucky said, scraping his bowl immaculately clean. “Sure there’s nothing we can do to help?” 

“I’m sure.” 

“We ought to be on our way,” Guy said. “Won’t trouble you anymore.” 

“It’s no trouble.” Maude reached out to shake his hand, and Steve’s. 

“Best of luck here.” Guy nodded at the house, the yard, the dusty street. 

Maude sighed, leaning against the doorframe. “Thanks. You all travel safe, you hear?”

“Yes ma’am. Thank you.” They all tipped their hats and waved as they crossed the yard, burrs on the grass catching on their trousers. Bucky pointed at the 18 on the gate as they closed it behind them. “Should we leave it?” 

Guy reached out toward it, rubbing the chalk mark out with the cuff of his jacket. “They don’t need just anyone wandering in.” 

“They were… were they...?” Steve began, and stopped. 

Bucky shrugged, and nodded.

Guy flicked his eyes between them, and then down at the dirt lane. 

Steve rubbed his stomach. A little food had made him feel more hungry, if that was possible. “Should we keep going?” 

Glancing at the sky, Bucky shook his head. “It’s getting dark.” 

Guy nodded in agreement. “Sleeping hungry won’t kill us, but getting shot would.” He clapped a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Come on. At least we have plenty of water.” 

A few steps down the path, Bucky wasn’t beside him. Steve looked over his shoulder to see Bucky standing by the gate, pack in one hand, glowering at both of them like they’d just called him a name. “Bucky?” he asked in alarm. 

Bucky shook himself, grimacing. “Coming.” 

 

That evening they sat with Newt and two other travellers around a small, smoky fire in the jungle. Conversation was short. One man gnawed on a bit of jerky, and everyone else eyed him jealousy. Steve had pulled his sketchbook out for something else to do with his eyes and hands. 

Guy had gone poking around in the bushes, and come back with a handkerchief full of green leaves. “Drawing again?” 

Steve shrugged. “It helps me think.” 

“Can I see?” 

Steve passed the book across the fire and peered over his shoulder, self conscious. It was a cartoon of a woman holding a baby with two more children behind her skirts, and a man pointing at a door and saying, “There’s not enough work and men have families to support you know.” Steve didn’t think he’d gotten the woman’s expression right - couldn’t decide if she should be angry or upset - but Guy smiled and tapped the page. “You’re really talented, you know.” 

“Really?” 

“Sure.” He crouched down and started shoving the weeds he had gathered into a tin can of water over the fire.

“What are you doing?” Steve asked.   

“Making tea.” 

“That’s not tea.”

“Says you. Nettles are very nourishing.” 

Steve leaned forward and sniffed the steam. “Smells like grass.” 

“Yes, it does have a somewhat green aroma doesn’t it? It’s full of vitamins, just the thing on an empty stomach. You can try some when I’m done. You and your grumpy shadow.” 

“My…” Looking over, he saw Bucky, hunched on an overturned crate, scowling fiercely at them across the fire. 

“Oh. I’m gonna. I’ll go talk to him.”

Tucking his sketchbook under his arm, Steve pulled up another milk crate beside Bucky and sat. “Hey.”

Bucky grunted. 

“What are you so torn up about?”

“Just hungry.” 

“I know you hungry and this ain’t it. What’s it really?”

Bucky rolled his shoulders, hands clasped together, and shrugged. 

Steve kicked him. “C’mon.” 

“Ow! Asshole.” For once Bucky looked really hurt, not like their usual roughhousing. He rubbed his shin, glaring at Steve. 

“If something’s wrong, tell me and I’ll fix it.” 

Bucky snorted a soft laugh and shook his head, gaze fixed on the fire. Distantly, a train whistled, and someone on the other side of camp laughed a wheezy, reedy laugh. Bucky’s hands were clenched between his knees. “I don’t like him,” he said finally, voice low. 

Steve followed his gaze. “Who, Guy? Why not? He’s nice.” 

“Don’t like the way he looks at you.”

“Looks at me?” Steve laughed incredulously. “What, I can’t have a friend who isn’t you?” 

“A little too friendly if you ask me,” Bucky muttered. 

“A little too…” Steve sputtered, cheeks flaming. He dropped his voice into a whisper. “What exactly are you saying?” 

Bucky shrugged. 

“He’s not… it ain’t… Bucky, it’s not like that.” He glanced across the fire to where Guy was stirring his tea. One of the other men said something and made him laugh. The firelight deepened the smile lines around his eyes and mouth. 

“Sure,” Bucky muttered. 

“Naw, listen, don’t be stupid. He’s just being nice, and even if he were...like that, he wouldn’t be interested in me. You know how hard it is to get a girl to look twice at me, why should… I mean,” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “Why would men be any different?” 

Bucky looked straight at him for the first time, eyebrows raised, and stared at him silently for so long that Steve felt himself going pink. His heart was thumping under his ribs, wondering what Bucky was seeing. Then Bucky snorted. “Sometimes you’re dumb as a brick, pal.” 

Steve spluttered, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

Before Bucky could respond, Guy called, “Tea’s up. Want to try some, Steve?” He wrapped a cloth around his hand and carried the steaming can around the fire. “Careful, it’s hot.”

“Oh, uh.” Steve took the can. “Alright.”

Bucky leaned over and sniffed the steam. “Smells like grass clippings.” Steve took a tiny sip and made a face. Bucky grinned. “Looks like you’ll have to find some other fella to feed your weed water.” 

“Bucky,” Steve muttered, but shook his head at Guy. “Thanks, but I think I’ll stick to water.” 

“Suit yourself,” Guy shrugged. 

That seemed to cheer Bucky up a little, and he struck up a conversation with one of the other travellers, one arm thrown over Steve’s shoulders and left as if he’d forgotten about it. Steve sketched the faces around the fire, half listening. 

Bucky’s new friend was a pimply boy called Otis, a little older than them, from Tennessee. “The air smells wrong.” 

“I know. All this…” Bucky sniffed. “Corn. Dirt. Wrong kind of soot.” 

Otis nodded. “I swear to God, even cow shit smells different here than back home.” 

“Well I wouldn’t know about cow shit, Brooklyn being not exactly the cowboy capital of the nation, but goddamn everything else smells different.” 

“I miss it. The crickets, the smell. The blue mountains in the evening.” He sighed. “Even the cow shit. It was my goddamn shit.” 

“You gonna go back?” Bucky asked. 

He shrugged. “Maybe. My home is gone, the land my family’s farmed for generations. I got nothing, except memories.”

“Foreclosure?”  

Otis snorted. “I wish. Then I could get rich and buy it back someday. Naw, it’s under water.” 

“What happened?” Steve asked, looking up. 

“Ain’t you heard about the TVA? Roosevelt threw a bunch of money at us to dam up the river. Jobs and cheap power, that’s what he said. And sure, Chattanooga's got cheap electricity, but what’s that matter when the home my grandfather was born in is at the bottom of a lake?” 

Steve’s mouth was open. He remembered hearing about that on the radio last year. The project was huge, it was going to revitalize the struggling Tennessee River Valley, with hundreds of new jobs in construction and engineering, and provide cheap power to farmers and manufacturers. No one had said that the dams would flood the towns along the river. 

Otis smirked humorlessly at his expression. “I lost my girl too. When the relocation happened, her family moved back to the Cumberland mountains, and I couldn’t afford to marry her, so she went with them. I had nothing left there, so here I am.” 

There was silence around the fire. Guy and Newt had broken off a conversation across the fire, distracted. 

“What would you have done instead, in the president’s place?” Newt said, pushing back his cap. “Things weren’t getting better on their own.” 

There was a tense silence. Frogs chirped in the grass. Across camp at another fire someone began singing, off key, the start of “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” then trailed off in muffled laughter. 

Guy patted his pocket and drew out a battered silver harmonica. “Music, anyone?” It gleamed in the firelight as he put it to his mouth and blew a long note, and then riffed a little jig, and began to play a Carter Family tune, simple and bluesey. The tension eased a little as Guy finished the song and started on another, his lips wet against the harmonica. Steve leaned against Bucky’s side, sketchbook on his knees. 

The moon was rising above the trees, and the harmonica wailed mournfully as Guy started to play something slow and sad, and Steve looked down at the sketch in his journal of a power plant on the edge of a clear lake, with houses under the water. At the bottom of the page, not part of the drawing, he’d written,  _ what would you have done instead? _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first half of a chapter I split in two. Next chapter coming soon, and will contain extra socialism and sex! In fact you might say it involves both a V card and a C card (Communist Party Card). As always, leave comments, tell me what you think, give me kisses. (Did I say kisses? Kudos will do...) xoxo


	6. On the Road, somewhere in North Dakota

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is actual socialism and actual sex! :D :D

Steve woke with his nose full of grass. He was on his stomach, with most of Bucky draped across his back, warm and heavy. Bucky was still snoring lightly, breath tickling the back of Steve’s neck. His hand was curled over Steve’s shoulder. The ground was hard and cold beneath him with just his jacket between him and the dirt, but he was warm with Bucky on top of him. Coming awake slowly, Steve shifted, rolling his hips against the ground, instinctive. He was half hard, half awake, unable to remember his pleasant dream, moving lazily. 

Bucky snuffled in his ear, insensible, and rubbed back against him. Steve froze. He could feel Bucky’s morning erection against his thigh, and was suddenly aching hard and wide awake. 

It wasn’t that he had never woken up to the soft sounds of Bucky touching himself in the morning, his uneven breathing, the rustle of fabric and rasp of skin. They had been sharing the pallet on the floor of the Barnes’ kitchen since they were thirteen. Some of Steve’s earliest sexual fantasies had involved the choked, almost inaudible noise Bucky made when he came. The unspoken rule was that they both pretended to sleep if the other was busy, tried not to make a mess on the sheets, and never, ever talked about it.

This was different. The whole length of Bucky’s body was pressed against his back, Bucky’s chin tucked into his shoulder, snoring in his ear. If Steve rolled his head to the side, they would be nose to nose, and Bucky was rubbing himself in his sleep against… against Steve’s ass. 

His whole body tensed, heat rushing to his face, feeling like he was about to come in his trousers, and a little like he was going to be sick. If Bucky woke up… or, God, if someone saw them… It was gray morning, enough light that someone might notice. 

That thought shocked him into motion, and he elbowed Bucky hard in the side, making him grunt and flinch, rolling to the side. “Stevie, what the hell?” he gasped. 

Steve scrambled to his feet. “Sorry! Gotta piss.” He dashed for the bushes at the edge of the jungle without looking back, and went crashing into the undergrowth. 

With the camp out of sight, he fell to his knees and yanked at the buttons on his trousers, pulling them open and fisting his cock, eyes squeezed shut. It didn’t take long, thinking about the feel of Bucky’s hips rolling against him. His body shuddered, the rush of pleasure fading to leave a sick wobble of guilt in his stomach. 

He lingered outside camp for as long as he could, until the delay started to seem suspicious. When he returned, Bucky was crouched by the cold fire pit, shaving with water from the canteen and a shard of mirror balanced on his knee. He looked up as Steve crept back, gave him a bemused look, and went back to shaving. “You alright?” 

“Yeah. Just uh. Stomach ache.”

Bucky frowned. “You drink any of the creek water?” 

“Course not. I feel better now anyway.” 

A crunch of footsteps in the underbrush made them turn, and Otis emerged from the bushes with two rabbits slung over his shoulder. Steve’s stomach growled and cramped. Otis grinned. 

As he knelt down and began skinning the rabbits, Guy strolled over. “If you’re making stew I can dig up some burdock root,” he offered. Otis nodded. “Cap, see if anyone has a real pot.” 

Steve made a round of the camp and found one of the semi-permanent residents who had a large cast iron pot. “Are you cooking for everyone?” Steve asked as he watched Otis piece out the gutted rabbits and toss them in the pot. 

“It’s more than I can eat myself before it goes bad. Folks’ll have things to trade.” 

“We don’t have much, but I could draw you a picture.” 

Otis frowned. “A picture? Of what?” 

“Anything you wanted.”

He considered, wiping his bloody hands on his trousers absently. “I’ve got a photo of my girl back home. Think you could draw a likeness of her, being a little more… interesting?” 

“I bet I can. Show me the photo?”

“Lemme wash my hands first.”  

The photo was a group studio portrait, the type that a family might sit for on a special occasion, printed on cardstock that was worn soft and grubby around the edges. She was a short girl with apple cheeks and a round figure, seated between her mother and father, with two younger siblings at their feet. 

Bucky looked over Steve’s shoulder. “I see why you want a picture of just her. Looking at a photo of her Pa glaring like that is the opposite of… relaxing.”  

The smell of stewing rabbit filled the camp, and eventually attracted the attention of all of the jungle’s dozen or so residents. Small items of trade changed hands - cigarettes, a tin of pomade, a few coins, a bottle with a bit of whiskey left.

Steve sketched a rough outline of a busty woman sitting with her legs curled beneath her, hair unpinned and tumbling down her back, but hesitated as he began to fill in the details. It seemed wrong to draw a real person totally naked, a nice girl who lived with her family. Finally, he drew her in a camisole, a lacy one like Mrs. Barnes sometimes mended for wealthier ladies, and a girdle that emphasized her waist. Her knees and bare feet showed under her skirt. The round lines of her face came easily, imagining the way her cheeks would crease as she smiled. 

Looking down at it, Otis smiled too, and clapped Steve on the shoulder. 

When the soup was done, chunks of savory rabbit floating with bits of burdock root, dandelion and nettle leaves, some dry beans and rice that other travelers had contributed, Otis said a short prayer and then ladled stew into tin plates and cans for everyone else. It was watery and needed salt, and it was the most delicious thing Steve had tasted in weeks. 

The three of them ate stew until their stomachs were bloated and caught out on a westbound freighter. Steve fell asleep against some sacks of sugar, waking when the train lurched to a halt with a squeal of brakes. 

“What’s it?” he mumbled, jerking upright, dislodging Bucky, who was asleep against his shoulder. 

Guy leaned out the door of the box car. “Water tower. And inspection, looks like. C’mon.” 

They jumped down from the car. Yawning, Bucky settled into the shade of a beech tree. “Wake me when we’re about to move.” The long, birdlike neck of the water tower arched down to fill the tanker car. Three other men tumbled out of another boxcar and joined Steve and Guy at a distance from the rail as brakies walked down the length of the locomotive inspecting the wheels. One paused and shouted to the others. They all converged on one car, looking down at an axle. One man lowered himself to the track and slid beneath the car. 

“What are they doing?” Steve asked. 

A hobo with a squashed-looking bowler hat said, “Looks like a hot box.” 

“A what?” 

“The axel box,” Guy explained. “To keep the axel turning on its bearings, the boxes are packed with rags soaked in oil. The packing dries out eventually if it’s not changed regularly, and the friction gets worse, starts to smoke and spark. Hot box.” 

“Does that happen often?” 

“Sometimes. Sometimes bums’ll pull the packing out of the axles. Makes great tinder on a wet night, oily cotton.” 

Bowler Hat spat in the dirt. “It’s a fool’s game though. Could get people killed.” 

“It’s dangerous without it?” 

Guy nodded. “If it’s not caught in time, the axle will seize up and the friction can start a fire. In Louisiana once I saw three cars go up in flames after a hot box started sparking. And if the heat weakens the metal, the axel can snap, and then you’re looking at a derailment.” 

Looking back at the brakemen, Steve shivered. 

“Don’t worry too much about it.” Guy put a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Brakemen may be thugs to us riders, but they’re good engineers. They’ll keep us running smoothly.” 

When the brakies finished their repairs and returned to the engine, Steve shook Bucky awake, and they clambered back into their boxcar along with Guy, Bowler Hat, and the two other travelers. 

Steve looked at his map as the train rumbled to life, the pages of the sketchbook fluttering on his knees. As far as he could tell, the camp they had spent the night in had been between Fargo and Bismark. The green river valleys and lakes had given way to a broad, gently rolling flatness, miles of brown grasses bent in the wind, squares of tilled earth growing stunted crops of corn or wheat, the occasional barbed wire fence streaking by as the train barreled down the tracks. 

Fat clouds massed at the zenith of the enormous sky, white as clean linen at their edges and deep bruised purple in the center, casting dramatic shadows over the landscape below. The afternoon air was hot and thick, even stirred by the slipstream of the train. It tasted wrong, dusty and electric, not like the muggy coal smoke and ocean wind that Steve was used to. 

Bucky was sitting with his back to the wall near the door, eyes closed, and Guy was propped against some boxes on the other side of the car with his hat pulled over his eyes. The other three were sitting together. “Looks like thunder,” Steve said to no one in particular. 

“Thunder maybe,” Bowler Hat muttered. “But not rain.” 

Steve squinted up at the dark underbellies of the clouds. “Could rain.” 

“No more n’ your grandpa could spit after two days with no water.” 

Pulling his knees up to his chest, Steve turned to face him more fully. “Because of the drought?”

He nodded in agreement. “Oughta be every afternoon a storm rolls in, pours down rain on our crops and fields, and then the sun comes back. But more days than not, those clouds just drift right on by.” 

“Are you a farmer?” 

Bowler Hat snorted. “Not no more.” 

One of his companions, a man with a weathered brown face and tired eyes, shifted and said, “None of us’s what we were before.” 

“Ain’t that the truth,” Bowler Hat sighed. “What’s your name, kid?” 

“Cap.” 

“I’m Tucker. This here’s Lewis, and the sleepy boy is Rex.” Rex was a long-limbed young man who was snoring lightly, arms wrapped around his pack. “Been on the rails long?” 

“No, not too long.” 

“Nah. You got a look about you, a little too bright eyed. You come out looking for a better life? That’s a tall order these days. But lemme tell you, our time is coming.” 

“Our time?” Steve asked. 

“The people’s time. To rise up. It took a real crisis to show us how broken it all is, but now folks are opening their eyes.” Tucker reached into a pocket of his jacket and pulled out a battered square card. Waving it, he said, “When the revolution comes, we’ll be the ones building the future.” 

Taking the card, Steve read  _ Communist Party of the United States  _ in elegant inked script. “Oh, I know about communists. There was that labor rally in Union Square a little while back, remember Buck?” Bucky glanced up across the car, and grunted. 

“That’s right. We organize for all sorts of causes. Labor reform is essential to a just, shared economy. The Party lifts up all people.” 

“The party lifts up shit,” said Lewis out of the side of his mouth. His teeth were stained with chewing tobacco. “I’m all for people power, hell. But a revolution won’t do anyone any good. Look what’s happened in Russia. Stalin’s just a new kind of dictator, concentrating power at the top.”

“That’s capitalist propaganda.” 

Lewis rolled his eyes. It seemed like a familiar argument between the two of them. “Nah, we gotta work with what we have. This country’s got solid bones.” 

“Solid bones of proletariat exploitation and slave labor.” 

“You don’t gotta remind me. That’s why I ain’t eager to turn around and be a slave to the state. If I turn an honest dollar in my life, God willin’, it’s gonna belong to me. Nobody owns my labor but me.”

Tucker waved his hands exuberantly. “You would still own your labor under communism! The state would belong to the people.” 

“But that’s the point of democracy!” Steve exclaimed. “It does belong to us! We can say what we want America to look like, tell Roosevelt what we need.” 

Lewis gestured to himself. “Do I look like I can vote?” 

Steve grimaced. “Right.” 

“But lemme tell you, if I could - and I will someday, you mark my words - Roosevelt’d have to work harder than he is to earn my vote. Not that any of those other bastards is any better.” 

“He passed NIRA,” Steve said. “And he raised taxes for the rich.”

Lewis waved a hand. “Sure, but do you see the situation getting that much better? NIRA’s good, but it’s not enough. We need something big. Bigger.” 

“Radical wealth distribution,” Tucker suggested. 

“That’s what taxes are,” Lewis said. “I mean more structured programs, employment programs. The CCC is good but small. PWA doesn’t hire bums like us, just gives jobs to firms.”

“Well let’s just write to Mr. President and tell him what we think, huh?” Tucker said. “You get cracking on that while I sort out this revolution we’re having.”  

Leaving the two of them bickering, Steve slid down the wall beside Bucky. “ What do you think, Buck?"

Pushing up the brim of his hat, Bucky squinted at him. "About what?"

"I don't know... Roosevelt has tried some good things, I guess, but these guys are right, it's not doing what he promised. It's been two years since he was elected."

Bucky grunted. 

Twisting his head, Steve stared at him. “Doesn’t it bother you?” 

“Stevie, I haven’t eaten more’n one square meal in the last week. I know life is rough.” 

“Yeah, well, neither have I, but think how important it is to talk about this stuff. Roosevelt promised a new deal, but it’s not enough. Fixes here and there.” He waved his hands. “There needs to be something bigger. To turn the economy around, and then to stop this happening again. What if the government could actually employ people out of work?” 

Bucky tipped his head back against the wall. “Course it needs fixing, hotshot. But who’s gonna do it? You?” 

Stung, Steve sat back, crossing his arms. Bucky’s head was turned away, arms propped on his knees, shoulders hunched. The silence between them was full of the rattle and screech of the rails, the rush of wind, the indistinguishable voices of the others talking. Outside the boxcar door, the dry hills rolled away. 

Steve shoved himself to his feet and  picked his way through the boxes and barrels, swaying with the motion of the train. Guy was sitting by the door with his back against the wall. He looked up when Steve loomed over him. “Alright?” 

Steve shrugged and crouched beside him. A gritty wind was blowing, making Steve’s mouth and eyes feel dry. Stuffing his jacket under him for padding, he settled down between two stacks of crates beside Guy, their elbows bumping, and pulled out his sketchbook. 

At the top of the page he wrote,  _ America belongs to We the People _ , and under it he drew an outline of the continent twice, side by side. On one, a fat politician was locked in a cage by a farmer with a key. In the other, the politician was in the water off the coast, drowning. Underneath, he wrote  _ Reform vs Revolution _ , and then shut the sketchbook and tried to rest his eyes. 

Tucker and Lewis hopped off on a roll through in Bismark later that afternoon. By the time the train slowed through another town Steve was thirsty and hungry again, and the sun was getting low. Looking at the map, Steve thought it was too small to be Dickinson, although it was in the right area, but sizes were hard to judge the further west they went. Towns that would barely have made it onto a map of New York were marked out boldly in the Dakotas. There were fewer and fewer signs of factories and industry, more acres of ranches and grain, all parching under the rainless sky. 

Before the train could roll to a stop, the three of them and Rex tumbled off and legged it away from the railyard, a bull shouting behind them. 

“Jungle on the other side of town, you think?” Guy said. 

“We gotta get food first,” Bucky grumbled. “The thought of going door to door makes me want to die.” 

“I wonder if the grocer is throwing anything out?” Steve said. 

Rex shrugged. “Worth a try.” 

The greengrocer’s window was boarded up, but the general store was still open. Guy stacked boxes under the stern eye of the manager while Rex and Bucky scrubbed out the trash bins at the spigot. Steve had been relegated to sweeping the stoop after receiving a scornful look that clearly said that he might collapse if asked to do anything harder. It took a tiring hour but they walked away with some molding apples and two sacks of oats with weevils in them. 

It was almost dusk when they finished. On the street in front of the store, Steve was repacking their bag with the food when a young woman left the store with a basket on her arm and trotted down the front steps. 

In the dim light she tripped over the last step with a yelp. She managed to catch herself before falling, but dropped her basket, spilling cans of beans and tinned beef which rolled away from her. “Damn!” she exclaimed. 

Steve and Bucky both hurried over to where she was kneeling, helping to gather the escaped cans. One had rolled under the siding of the stairs and Steve went crawling after it.

“Are you alright Miss?” he heard Bucky ask behind him.

“I’m fi- oh.” She looked up at him for the first time. 

“Do you need a hand?” 

“No, no.” She snatched two cans from him and stuffed them into her back. “Not from you.” Her pretty face was creased in a scowl. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“You heard me! Go on, get! Don’t want no bums hanging around these streets after dark. You’d better go before I call the police.” Shoving the last of the cans into the bag, she hurried away with a last glance back over her shoulder.  

Steve held up the can of beans he had retrieved. “Do you want this?” he called after her, but there was no response. 

Bucky ran a hand self consciously through his hair, and swore with feeling under his breath. 

Rex stepped out of the shadows. “Not used to it, huh? Handsome guy like you, I bet they never say no.” He clapped Bucky on the shoulder. “It’s all different on the road though. Girls don’t like hobos.”

“Yeah, I got it,” Bucky muttered, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. 

“Awww don’t take it so hard, happens to the best of us. Tell you what, when we get to camp, drinks are on me.” 

Steve raised his eyebrows but Bucky just nodded. They headed along the tracks toward the outskirts of town. Bucky was lagging behind the other three, dragging his feet, hands shoved in his pockets. Steve fell back beside him. “You okay?” 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Their feet shuffled along the dusty road. “She’s just a dumb girl. It’s not that big a deal.” 

“Yeah, sure, of course.” Bucky still wouldn’t look at him. 

The jungle was by the tracks on the far side of town, near a swift-running creek. There were half a dozen men already there, with bedrolls or rough cloth partitions hung from tree branches. Steve and Bucky put down their things as usual, and put on a tin of water to boil for oats. 

“We should probably save the beans,” Steve reflected. “We ate well this morning.” The mathematics of hunger had quickly become second nature.

They were scraping the tin clean when Rex came over. 

“C’mon, Casanova, come have a drink with us.” He gestured to a group of four men around another fire. One of them waved a bottle, mostly full of amber liquid. 

“Yeah, I think I will, thanks.” Bucky got to his feet. 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Steve muttered. 

“Steve, it’s been a bad day, sue me if I just want to shoot the breeze and have a drink.” 

Steve drifted after him as Bucky pulled up a log by the fire, saying something that made the others chuckle. Rex raised a flask. “A toast to your girl today, the frigid bitch.” Someone else passed the bottle to Bucky. 

Shaking his head ruefully, Bucky took a long swig, face twisting in a grimace as he swallowed. “Jesus,” he croaked. The men laughed. 

Steve caught a whiff of the spirits, so strong they smelled like paint thinner. “What is that?” 

“Coffin varnish,” one of the men said with a grin. “The second shot’s easier. Drink up.”  

Steve pulled out his sketchbook as the bottle was passed around the circle, keeping one eye on Bucky, who was rapidly getting drunk. The drawing under his hand was of a politician offering a scruffy man a bottle. Behind him was a trash bin, labeled  _ regulation, stimulus, taxation of the rich _ . The caption at the bottom said, “At least we legalized booze.”

The flask passed around the circle again. Steve shook his head when the man on his right tried to hand it to him. “It’s getting late,” he said to Bucky. “We should get some sleep.” 

“Nah, you go.” 

“Bucky!” 

Bucky licked his lips. His face was flushed. “Stop clucking, sweetheart. I ain’t a chick but you’re acting like a hen.” The other men around the fire laughed.

Steve took a deep breath. “Right. Sorry.” Slapping his sketchbook closed, he got to his feet and stalked away into the darkness toward the sound of running water. His fists were clenched at his sides, blood pounding in his ears. 

Crouching by the creek, he splashed water on his face and swore softly to himself. It was dark away from the campfires, and when he tipped his head back he saw stars through the patchwork of leaves. 

There was a crunch of footsteps on twigs behind him and he turned, feeling a surge of hope when he saw dark hair. But it was Guy, not Bucky. “You alright, Cap?” 

Steve shrugged and shook his head. “We never should have left Brooklyn.” 

“Ah.” Guy crouched beside him, elbows on his knees. “That’s the nature of the rails. Some places are worse than where you started. Some are better.”

“Mostly it’s been worse. Not just for us, I mean,” he waved his hands vaguely in the direction of town, “I didn’t know how bad it was everywhere. It seems so big, and there’s no solution.” 

“Want to go for a walk? It’ll clear your head.” 

Steve glanced over his shoulder at Bucky, who had his back turned, laughing with the men at the fire. Someone passed him a flask, and Steve watched him take a pull. “Yeah. Ok.” 

They walked down toward the stream and then turned away from town. Twigs and dry grass crunched under their feet and the cloudy creek gurgled. The light was fading, blue shadows deepening in the underbrush. They reached a little thicket of blackberry and willow growing in a knot by the bank. Behind them, Steve could still see the flickering light of the jungle fires, but could no longer hear the voices and laughter. Guy sat down with a sigh, stretching his legs out in front of him, and Steve mirrored him. Tipping his head back, he could see the first stars winking in the velvet blue of the sky. 

“I wish there was something I could do,” he said finally, voice hushed in the evening air. 

Guy heaved a gusty sigh, shoulder bumping Steve’s. “You’re a rare one, Cap.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He shrugged, arm shifting against Steve’s side. “It means lots of people in hard times want to put their heads down, just get through. Enjoy a bit where they can. Can’t be blamed for that. I’ve done it myself, plenty. Most people, hardship beats them down, tires them out. Seems like it just makes you angry. I admire that about you.” 

“Thanks, I guess.” Steve ducked his head, face warm. “Gets me in more trouble than it’s worth sometimes. I can’t tell you the number of stupid fights Bucky’s dragged me out of. ”

“You’re lucky to have someone like him.” 

“Yeah. I am.” Steve plucked a stem of dried grass and twisted it between his fingers, listening to the babble of the river. “I’m worried about him.”

“What, him getting chummy with those stew bums? Just a bit of bad company, it won’t last.”

Steve shook his head. “Not that. I think he’s having a harder time than me. I don’t want him to get… like you said. Beaten down.” 

Guy shifted, his knee rubbing against Steve’s thigh, still gazing straight ahead at the rushes by the creek. “You’re pretty tied up about him, huh.” 

“Bucky? I.” Steve swallowed. “He’s my best friend.” 

“Right. ‘Course.” There was a silence. “Just a friend?” 

Steve’s whole body tensed. “I. Yes.” 

“Then tell me if I’m out of line.” He moved his hand so that the tips of his fingers brushed Steve’s knee. 

Steve’s breath was coming shallowly. “Are you…” 

Guy just looked at him, eyes inscrutable in the dark. 

“I.” Steve swallowed. “Me, really?”

“See anyone else around?” 

They were touching at the shoulder, and the tips of Guy’s fingers against his leg, and those tiny connections burned.

“Ok?”

“Ok.” Gathering his courage, Steve picked up Guy’s hand and put it squarely on his thigh. “Yes. But I’ve never...”

“Never?” 

Steve shook his head. 

His teeth flashed white in the dark as Guy grinned. “Don’t worry. It’s easier than you think.” He drew his fingers gently up Steve’s neck, over his adam’s apple, making him shiver, and pressed his thumb lightly against Steve’s bottom lip. 

“Just do what I do,” he murmured, leaning forward. Guy’s breath was warm and damp against his cheek, and then their lips were touching. Steve realized he was holding his breath, and couldn’t figure out how to let it out. He tensed and Guy drew back. “Doing alright there?” 

“Um.” Steve breathed out hard. “I just.” His face was flaming in the dark. He was terrible at this, like he always expected. He wanted to crawl away and drown in the creek. “I’m bad at this.” 

“Hey, no,” Guy chuckled. “You’re a little green that’s all. It’s charming, I promise. Here.” Taking Steve’s hands, he put one on his own shoulder and the other on the back of his head. 

Hesitantly, Steve dug his fingers in like he would do for Bucky sometimes after a long day at work, and it had the same effect. Guy sighed heavily and rolled his head back against Steve’s hand. “Oh yes.” He tipped his head forward against Steve’s shoulder as Steve continued to rub his scalp, and then Steve jumped as Guy began kissing and nibbling at his neck.

The wet slide of his tongue made Steve shudder, and Guy was making noises like a happy cat against his throat, his mouth was warm and insistent. Steve’s heart was thundering in his ears but he could breathe again, found himself gasping and pulling Guy closer, and Guy made a pleased grunt and slid an arm around Steve’s waist, tugging him into his lap. 

Their legs tangled awkwardly, but Guy lifted him up as if he weighed nothing and repositioned them so that Steve’s knees were on either side of his hips, sinking into the soft ground. Their thighs were pressed together, chests touching, breathing the same air, and there was no way to hide how hard he was, with his legs spread and his erection right there between them. In a rush of embarrassment he began to tense up again, but Guy grabbed his sides and yanked their hips snug together and -  _ oh _ . 

This time when Guy kissed him, he opened his mouth, trying to mimic the little nibbles and licks, and let himself rock against Guy’s erection because it made Guy moan into his mouth and squeeze his hips to pull him closer.  Guy smelled like sweat and cigarette smoke, and Steve was enveloped, face pressed into Guy’s shoulder, his strong arms around him, feeling as much as hearing his low grunts of pleasure. He was overwhelmed by the friction of their hips rolling together, the feel of another man’s hard cock against his own, through their trousers, his whole body drawing tight with it. “I’m gonna,” he gasped. “I can’t…” 

Guy pulled away and Steve moaned at the loss. His cock ached, and his face must have been a picture because Guy laughed softly. “As much as I’d like to make you come in your pants, it’s messy and hard to explain. Here.” His hands found the buttons on Steve’s trousers and popped them deftly. 

“Easy.” Guy murmured, and Steve realized he was whimpering. “Easy, I’ve got you.”  His fingers touched Steve’s dick and his whole body shuddered. “God, look at you.” 

Guy slipped his suspenders off his shoulders and unbuttoned his trousers, still kneeling. Steve couldn’t stop staring. He had lean muscle in his arms and torso from handy work on the road, a trail of hair on his chest and a bulge in his trousers. He grinned at whatever he saw in Steve’s face, and reached out a hand. “C’mere.” Steve shifted nearer so that they were side by side. “Roll over.” 

“You’re not… are you…?” The words stuck in his throat. 

“I’m not going to fuck you.” Steve’s breath punched out of him at that word. “Something easier. Press your legs together for me.” Despite Guy’s assurance, he tensed when he felt his cock probing his ass, but he slipped it between his thighs instead, and Guy reached around to take ahold of Steve’s erection. 

“Oh, oh, oh.” He could feel the head of Guy’s cock rubbing against his balls, almost painful friction on the tender skin between his thighs. Guy’s broad, calloused hand stroking at his cock, chest pressed against his back, lips on Steve’s shoulder. Pressing his eyes closed, it was almost like the person behind him… he could almost imagine it was… 

He came like a punch in the gut. His entire body convulsed, and his hands clenched in the dirt, ripping up handfuls of dry grass and dandelion leaves. Guy swore breathlessly in his ear, and rolled him onto his back.

He couldn’t stop shuddering as he opened his eyes to see Guy leaned over him, stroking his own cock hard and then grimacing, biting his lip as he came, spilling sticky fluid across Steve’s stomach and making another aftershock run through him. 

They collapsed side by side and panted at the dark sky. Frogs chirped in the reeds, and an owl hooted, hunting mice. Sweat cooled on Steve’s skin but he was warm, hot, blood thundering, and he could see the stars. 

“Oh, my god,” Steve gasped finally. 

“I agree.” Guy levered himself upright and began wiping himself clean with a handkerchief.  

“Oh my god,” Steve repeated. 

Guy chuckled and offered the handkerchief. “Here.” 

Taking it, Steve squashed the urge to put it to his nose and inhale, instead wiping at the cool, sticky mess on his stomach. “Jeez.” 

“We oughta get back before we’re missed.” 

That sobered Steve a little. “How long were we gone?” 

Guy shrugged. “Long enough.” He pulled his shirt over his head. “We’ll go back separately.” 

“Right.” Suddenly feeling chilled, Steve pulled up his trousers and wrapped his arms around himself. 

“Hey.” Guy reached out and caught his arm. “We’ll catch out for Montana in the morning, yeah? Like normal.” 

“Yeah. Of course.” 

His expression softened. “Goodnight, Cap.” 

“Goodnight.” 

Steve listened as his footsteps faded, staring up at the stars. 

 

When Steve got back to camp, Bucky was still sitting with the others. Standing at the edge of the firelight, Steve met his gaze. For a moment Bucky looked confused, a frown furrowing his brow, and he blinked, looking back and forth between Steve and Guy who was laying out his bedroll on the other side of camp. Unease prickled the back of Steve’s neck. 

Suddenly Bucky lurched to his feet and bolted toward the bushes, where he bent over and wretched violently. The men around the fire laughed and jeered. 

Crossing the jungle, Steve stood behind Bucky until he finished heaving. “Hey. Feel better?” 

“Yech.” Bucky straightened, wiping his mouth on his sleeve

“You okay?” Steve reached out to touch Bucky’s shoulder, but Bucky swayed away from him, unsteady on his feet.  “Buck?” he asked, nervously. Bucky’s eyes were glassy as he looked Steve up and down, and Steve followed his gaze, looking down to see that his knees were mudstained and his shirt tucked in unevenly. His throat tightened. 

Bucky reached out toward him, and Steve’s heart thundered in confusion and apprehension, but Bucky just plucked a dry leaf out of his hair and held it up, twirling it in his fingers. His face was wan and hard. 

He spat into the bushes, and looked back at Steve. “Did you like it?” he rasped. 

A stone dropped into Steve’s stomach and he opened his mouth but nothing came out. Bucky turned on his heel and stalked unsteadily away, leaving Steve standing alone with a sick hollow in his gut and his heart racing in his ears. 


	7. Butte MT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky meet the Rocky Mountains, and also some humans. Steve has a couple of "Aha!" moments, but not THE aha moment. 
> 
> Content warnings for some internalized homophobia, and law enforcement.

The next morning, Bucky was pale and moving slowly, wincing at loud noises. Steve woke chilled and stiff, curled alone on the ground with dew settling on his jacket, to the shriek of a train whistle and the roar of the locomotive rushing past the jungle. Bucky avoided his gaze, sitting hunched over and silent as Steve heated water in a can over the fire. Some of the men he had been drinking with were still snoring, while most of the camp was up and performing the rituals of morning in a hobo jungle. 

Steve took the hot can off the fire, tipped it into his canteen, and held it out to Bucky. “How’re you feeling?”

Bucky took the canteen without meeting his eyes.

Steve crossed his arms. “You look like you just went three rounds on the Cyclone after eating two hot dogs.” 

Taking a small sip of hot water, Bucky grimaced, and then his gaze was caught by something behind Steve, mouth flattening. Steve turned to see Guy coming up from the creek with his shirt off, his hair damp and slicked back. His eyes flicked toward them and then away, crouching down by his pack and bedroll. Steve swallowed. 

When he looked back at Bucky, the expression on his face made Steve queasy. 

“Bucky…” he ventured. 

“Nothing to say,” Bucky grunted. 

Steve shut his mouth. His chest felt tight and his breath was short. 

Guy strolled over to the fire, buttoning his shirt. “Looks like we missed the morning freighter, but there ought to be a noon train we can catch out for Montana.” 

Bucky glowered and got to his feet so quickly he knocked over the crate he was sitting on. “Gonna wash,” he muttered and stalked away toward the creek. 

Guy raised his eyebrows, taking in Steve’s expression. “Everything alright?” 

Steve shook his head and balled his fists. “I’ll talk to him.” 

At the stream, Bucky was splashing water on his face. Steve crouched down several feet away. Across the creek a frog crawled out onto a stone and croaked, throat pulsing. The veins stood out in its translucent skin. “Look,” Steve pointed. 

Bucky barely glanced up, running a hand through his hair. Water dripped down his throat and wet the grimy collar of his shirt. Steve sighed, folding his arms across his knees. “You gonna tell me what this is about?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Bucky muttered, not looking at him. 

Forcing himself to breathe evenly, Steve said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Don’t play dumb.” Bucky sounded tired. “I saw you go walking with him. Saw you come back.” Despite the warmth of the morning Steve was cold, heart thundering in his ears. He couldn’t find anything to say. Bucky smiled bitterly. “Think I don’t know what well-fucked looks like?” 

Steve gaped. The frog jumped into the water with a splash. His throat closed and Steve wondered distantly if he was going to have an asthma attack. He was trembling in the warm sun. 

Bucky huffed out a heavy sigh and shook his head, pressing a hand against his eyes. “It’s none of my goddamn business,” he muttered. “I just… don’t want to see it.” 

“I…” Somehow, Steve found the breath to speak. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Sorry.” 

Bucky scowled and shrugged. They sat silently on the bank, listening to the gurgle of the water and the rustling grass. Gradually, Steve’s pulse slowed, but he still felt light-headed, sick to his stomach. 

“You like men like that?” Bucky asked softly, sounding almost reluctant. 

Steve’s heart thumped unevenly. “I. No. Not normally.” 

Bucky snorted. “Not normally. He was a special exception, then?” 

“Um.” Steve swallowed. “I guess.” The truth pressed against his palate like bile and he swallowed hard. 

“Right. Right.” They both stared unseeing at the opposite bank as a bird warbled in the trees. 

 

The silence between the three of them was palpable as they caught out that afternoon. Guy was giving the two of them space, sitting at the door of the boxcar with one leg swinging above the rushing tracks. Bucky had his back to both of them on the far side of the car, pretending to sleep. 

Steve sat with his sketchbook in his hands, but the only images in his mind were ones he couldn’t draw. Guy with his shirt rucked up and trousers unbuttoned, his mouth open as he came. Bucky’s bitter smile, eyes grim and hard. Steve’s stomach hurt. 

He managed to fall into a fitful doze, bone-tired after a poor night’s sleep alone on the ground, and was woken by a soft voice. “Cap. Hey, Cap.” 

Rubbing his eyes, he sat up. Guy was looking at him expectantly. Glancing over, he saw that Bucky was now actually asleep against a stack of crates, so Steve crawled over toward the door where Guy was sitting. “What?” he asked, keeping his voice low. 

Leaning out of the car, Guy pointed west. “Look. You see that?” 

“What?” The sky was blazing after the dim interior of the car. His eyes hurt. 

“That bit of blue on the horizon.” 

Steve squinted. There was a hazy line of duskier blue against the smooth rim of the sky. “What is it? A storm?” 

Guy chuckled. “It’s the mountains.” 

They didn’t look like much, but they stretched from one end of the horizon to the other. Now that he knew what they were, he imagined the line looked jagged, stony, but really they were just a hazy smudge. 

“We’ll be in the Rockies by tonight,” Guy sighed. There was a soft, distant look on his face. 

Glancing over his shoulder, Steve saw that Bucky was still snoring gently.“You like the mountains?” he asked.

Guy shrugged and nodded. “I grew up near the mountains. Not these ones, the Sierras, but still, half this country is nothing but little hills. Being back by the mountains, I feel like I’m going home.” He snorted. “Which is goddamn stupid because I’ve got no home to speak of.” 

Steve swallowed and wrapped his arms around his knees, sketchbook tucked against his chest. “Because of…?”

“Lots of reasons.” A grim smile crossed his face. “As if one reason wasn’t enough.” 

If it was Bucky, he would have known what to say. The day before, maybe, Steve would have put a hand on Guy’s shoulder or patted his arm, some kind of harmless empathy, but now he was too conscious  of the distance between their bodies. Small glances and touches seemed charged and meaningful, but Steve wasn’t sure what the meaning was, or even what he wanted it to be. Instead, he rested his chin on his knees and looked west. 

The train rattled through ranch land and scrubby hills, Montana indistinguishable from Dakota except for the mountains growing closer until they were distinct blue peaks capped with dramatic white, rising impossibly sharp against the sky. 

When he looked over, Guy was grinning, eyes fixed westward. 

Within a couple of hours the land began to climb, prairie giving way to rocky outcroppings and stones jutting through the soil, the railway winding toward the peaks that were suddenly filling half the sky. Scraggly pine trees with forbidding, pointed tops grew in clumps on the rocky slopes, thicker as they barreled up into the mountains. Steve’s ears popped. Gold afternoon light painted the high peaks royal purple, canyon red, blazing white, while throwing the valleys into blue shadows where the train huffed along a river bank. His hands itched for a set of real paints. 

The track bent around a bluff and a town was before them, lit up for the evening. Steve peered at his map. “I think we’ve passed… Bossman? Bozeman? I can’t read whatever I wrote here. So this must be...” 

“It’s Butte,” Guy said. 

Squinting in the failing light, Steve looked back at the map. They were further west than he’d thought. Butte was at the intersection of two railroads, where the Northern Pacific line sent a spur down to meet the Central Pacific in Salt Lake City. Steve looked up. “You’ve been here before?”

Guy nodded silently. Although the sky was still bright, the sun had sunk behind the mountains and his face was in shadows. 

“I’ll wake Bucky.” 

Crouching down, he saw that Bucky’s eyes were already open, glinting in the dim light. 

“There’s a town coming up. Guy says it’s Butte.”

“Guy says, huh?” 

“Bucky…” 

“You two were sitting there for a long time.” His voice was pitched low enough not to be heard over the rattle of the wheels. 

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, was it private?” 

Steve sighed, slinging his pack over his shoulder. “C’mon. We’ve gotta hit the grit.” 

 

They jumped down as the train rolled up the arrival tracks toward the water tower. An engineer leaned out of the signal box and yelled at them and they took off running toward town. Steve was immediately short of breath, feeling weaker and more choked than usual. Gravel kicked up behind their heels as they ran. 

“Hey, stop right there!” A man wearing a cowboy hat had broken off a conversation with a couple of bulls and was coming toward them diagonally across the railyard. 

“That’s the sheriff!” Guy yelled over his shoulder, and veered behind a parked box car. Steve’s lungs were burning, his breath was short, painful. Risking a glance, he saw the sheriff had broken into a run as well. His legs felt like rubber, his heartbeat was thumping in his temples so hard his head hurt. 

Bucky was a dozen paces ahead of him, Guy nowhere to be seen. There was something wrong with the air, or maybe just his lungs. He could hear the sheriff’s footsteps on gravel drawing closer behind him. Steve’s throat was closing. He couldn’t breathe. His vision swam. It felt like there was a knife between his ribs. He stumbled, wheezing, and a meaty hand closed around the back of his neck. Ahead of him, Bucky had halted, turned back. Steve tried to wave to him, unable to speak -  _ go on, don’t get caught because of me. _

“Aha, gotcha!” The hand gave him a shake and Steve slid to his knees, choking for air, staring at the man’s dusty boots. “Hey. What’s the matter with you?” The sheriff’s voice sounded distant. There were purple spots swimming in his vision. 

“Steve!” It was Bucky, skidding up to them, dropping to kneel beside him.  _ Dammit, Bucky. _

“He sick or something?” 

“He’s got asthma,” Bucky snapped, and Steve felt his warm hand on his back. “He wouldn’t be like this if you hadn’t been chasing us.” 

“Watch your attitude, kid. You two best come with me.” Rough hands seized Steve under the armpits and hauled him to his feet. He heard Bucky swearing as the world spun and went dark. 

 

“Easy, easy, Stevie. I’m right here, that’s right.” Steve blinked, breathed too deeply, and began coughing. 

“Here, sit up, it’ll help.” Bucky’s arm was across his back, levering him upright, Bucky’s chest pressed against his shoulder. “Slow breaths, slow as you can.” 

Flicking his eyes from side to side, he took in the iron bars and struggled to breathe. “Jail?” he wheezed. 

“Don’t worry about it. Steve. Steve! Listen to me. Just breathe.” 

Steve’s breath rattled in his lungs, but he clutched at Bucky’s hand and tried to relax. Slowly he registered that they were not inside the bars of the small cell but outside it on a hard bench. “Hey, that’s good.” Bucky rubbed slow circles on his back. “You’re doing great, champ.” 

“He awake?” someone else said. 

“No thanks to you,” Bucky snapped. “Dragging him across town like that. He’s supposed to sit still and stay calm when he has an attack.”

“Well pardon me, nursey,” the sheriff drawled. He was sprawled with his boots propped on a desk, wearing a cowboy hat and a gold star, just like in the western flicks they’d watched back home when they had a nickel to spare. “Alright boys. Here’s how it is.” He sat forward, feet hitting the floor with a thud. “There’s a law against vagrants, see. But I don’t like to judge a man by his looks. So if you two’ve got thirty five cents on either of you, we’ll call it a misunderstanding, shake hands, and go our separate ways. Well?” 

“You got our bags right there,” Bucky said, sullen. “Haven’t you snooped through ‘em yet?” 

“I take it that’s a no, then. You oughta mind that mouth of yours, it’ll get you into trouble that it can’t get you out of someday.” He smirked. “Well, seeing as the two of you ain’t got two quarters to your names, I’m going to have to hold you for vagrancy.” 

“Hold us for how long? Are you arresting us? Do we get a trial?” 

“Son, if I dragged every penniless hobo to roll through this town in front of Judge Parker, he would never get a moment’s peace. Nah, you’ll do three days’ labor and then I’ll give you a ride to the county line. That’s how it goes most places, you’ll find.” 

“Is that legal?” Steve wheezed, just as Bucky said, “What kind of labor?” 

“Digging ditches, most like. I’ll take you down to the county jail in the morning and the warden will get you sorted in with the rest of the gang. For now you’ll spend the night with Soupy here.” He jerked his chin toward the small cell, and Steve noticed for the first time the crumpled form of a man hunched on one of the bunks. 

“Digging ditches?” Bucky echoed. “Are you kidding? You saw what happened this afternoon. Three days of hard labor’d kill him!” 

“I certainly hope not. Grave digging takes time away from useful work. C’mon, now.” With a rattle of keys he unlocked the cell. 

“You… you…!” Bucky spluttered. 

“I said git!” Grabbing Bucky’s arm, the sheriff shoved him into the cell so hard he stumbled and fell. Still unsteady on his feet, Steve followed without having to be asked twice. 

The cell door clanged behind them. “You can’t do this!” Bucky yelled, throwing himself against the bars. 

“Bucky,” Steve wheezed. 

“Kid, do you want to make it six days instead of three? Shut your mouth. Now you boys get some rest, you’ll be needing it in the morning.”

The door to the sheriff’s office shut firmly behind him. It was dark inside, the last blue light through the shutters fading. The man on the other bunk was snoring heavily and smelled of stale sweat, piss, and liquor. Bucky stood at the bars, knuckles white where he was gripping them. 

“Bucky,” Steve rasped. His throat felt like he’d swallowed gravel. He collapsed on the empty cot and listed sideways. 

Bucky turned. “You shouldn’t lie down yet. Here.” Sitting beside him, he tugged Steve over until he was propped against Bucky’s chest, feeling it rise and fall as he breathed. Tipping his head back against Bucky’s shoulder, he could smell the familiar ripe mix of sweat, road dust and pomade. In spite of everything, Steve found himself relaxing, feeling for the first time in an hour like he could breath almost normally. 

“It’ll be ok,” he whispered. “Buck, it’s going to be fine. I’ll be fine.” 

“Shhhh, just rest.” Bucky smoothed a hand over his forehead like he used to when Steve was stuck in bed with a fever and he’d come over after school, sitting for hours when other kids were out playing. He would tell stories and make Steve laugh, and when Steve was too sick to do anything but whimper and shake, he’d pet Steve’s forehead, just like that. Steve closed his eyes. 

 

He woke with a violent start to the sound of someone screaming. Jolting upright in the dark, with Bucky starting to his feet beside him, it took Steve a long, heart-pounding moment of disorientation to realize that it was the drunk crying in his sleep, strangled, gurgling cries of pain and fear. 

Bucky realized it at the same moment, and Steve heard his gasp of relief. “Jesus,” he muttered. Gray dawn light was coming through the shutters in the office, giving just enough dim illumination to see the man writhing in his sleep, holding out his hands as if to ward something off. 

“Hey.” No response. “Hey,” Steve tried, a little louder. “Hey Mister. It’s just a dream.” He reached out toward him. 

“Steve…” Bucky warned. 

“You’re dreaming. Wake up.” He touched the man’s shoulder, feeling fragile bone with hardly any meat beneath the thick layers of grimy jacket. “Hey.” 

The man woke with a choked off grunt and lurched upright, lashing out at him. Steve stumbled back, the man’s fist narrowly missing his jaw. “What’re it? Who’rye?” he slurred. 

“Hey!” Bucky was on his feet between them. “Easy.” 

“Wha?” The man swayed, and collapsed back on his bunk. 

“Easy,” Bucky repeated. “You were having a bad dream. Shouting.” 

“Oh.” He rubbed gnarled, filthy hands over his gaunt face. “Where’m I?” 

“In, uh, jail. In Butte Montana.” 

“Oh.” He appeared to think about this for a long moment. “Not France?” 

“No, America.” 

“America. America,  _ America. _ ” Pounding his hands against his forehead he rocked back and forth on the cot. Steve and Bucky had their shoulders pressed together, watching him warily. “Keep goddamn… forgetting. We  _ won _ the war. Won the war.” 

“Yeah. Years ago,” Bucky said. 

Steve elbowed him. “Bucky!” 

“What?” 

“Years ago,” the man echoed. His voice was a little clearer. “Yeah, that’s right. It’s, what ‘33? ‘34? Years ago. Did I wake you? Sorry. Fuckin’... sorry.” 

“That’s ok,” Steve said in a small voice. “It was just a nightmare.” 

“Nightmare. Nothing but nightmares. Years of nightmares. Neither of you got booze, eh?” 

They shook their heads. 

“Nah, never any hootch in lockup. That’s why the nightmares are so goddamn bad.” He collapsed back against the wall with a sigh. “Ya’know, it’s not the battles I dream about. The blood, screaming, men…” he waved a hand, “faces burnt off. Nah. It’s the waiting. Before the first mortar. Lying in the mud ‘n shit and s’all silent and you can feel the angel of death on you so heavy you can’t breathe.” His eyes were closed, head tipped back against the wall. 

Steve pressed against Bucky, felt Bucky’s fingers squeezing his knee. The man said nothing else, and after a long moment began snoring gently. Sitting shoulder to shoulder on the other bunk, they watched him twitch and shudder in his sleep as the light grew brighter outside the shuttered windows. 

It was full daylight outside when the door banged open and the sheriff sauntered in. “Morning boys! How’d you enjoy your stay?” 

They glared at him. 

“No? Ah, well.” He pulled the keys off his belt. “Wake up, Soupy.” The man lurched upright with a grunt and swore under his breath. “That’s it. C’mon, you’re sober enough to cuss, you’re sober enough to get out of my office.” With a clank, he unlocked the door and Soupy slouched out with barely a glance in their direction. “I’ll see him again in a few days,” the sheriff said to nobody in particular. “Two weeks, tops. His sister’ll kick him out again when he’s on a bender, and I’ll have to come haul him out of Mrs. Reynold’s turnip patch.”

“He was a soldier,” Steve said. “He got messed up in the war. It’s not his fault.” 

The sheriff pointed at the wall behind his desk, where a bronze plate listed two dozen names. “See that there? That’s all the boys we lost to the war, just here in Butte. And you’re right, sure enough, Mr. Andrew “Soupy” Taylor oughta be on that list. Just his poor luck to come back alive, eh? Alive enough to hold a bottle, anyway.” 

There was nothing really to say to that. 

Sitting down at his desk the sheriff shook open a newspaper. “You two sit tight. I’ll take you down to the county pen when my deputy gets back with the car.” 

The door creaked open and a tall, fair haired man stepped through, cowboy hat in hand. “Afternoon.” 

“Mr. Weber,” the sheriff greeted him. “How’s things on the ranch?” 

“Can’t complain. Yourself, Sheriff?” 

“The usual. Was there a reason for you stopping by?” 

“As a matter of fact there was.” Weber nodded toward the cell. “Seems as you’ve got two of my ranch hands in your custody.” 

They both looked at the cells. Steve and Bucky stared silently back at them. 

“One and a half ranch hands, maybe,” the sheriff said doubtfully. Mr. Weber looked equally bemused. 

The sheriff let them out and returned their belongings. “You boys be good now.” He cuffed Steve on the back of the head. “Don’t run too hard.” 

Steve checked his sketchbook and the can of beans at the bottom of the pack - the only things of value. He was buckling the straps when he stepped out into the blinding daylight and looked up to see Guy leaning against a hitching post in the shade, his dark hair gleaming. He was washed and dressed in clean clothes, looking sharper than Steve had ever seen him. 

“Here they are,” the rancher said gruffly behind them. “Ranch hands, huh?” 

Guy grinned. “Thanks John.” 

John shook his head. 

“Cap, Bucky, this is John. He’s an old friend I stay with when I roll through this neck of the woods, He also happens to be an upstanding member of the community.” Guy flashed his teeth. “It’s a useful combination.” 

John nodded brief acknowledgement. His face was weathered, lines around his eyes and rough, sunburnt cheeks, but he didn’t look much older than Guy. “As long as we’re in town, I’m going to stop by the machine shop, see if they’ve got the plough parts that I need. Guy, you come and help me lift it. You too. Buck, was it?” He looked at Steve. “You can wait here, kid. We’ll be back as soon as we’ve loaded up the truck.” 

“Can’t I help?” 

“No, Steve,” Bucky muttered. “Stay here, we’ve got it.” Shaking his head, he turned and met Guy’s eyes. They exchanged a look that Steve was familiar with.  _ This kid, right? _ Then Bucky remembered himself and looked away sharply, frowning. They headed down the street, Bucky trailing behind the other two. 

Shoving his hands in his pockets Steve leaned in the shade of an awning and watched the main street. Beside him was a barber shop, its painted pole dusty. Across the street was the post office with the tarnished bronze seal of an eagle above the door. The harsh noon sun cast stark shadows in the windows and doorways. 

Settling himself on a bench in front of the shuttered windows of a clothing shop, Steve pulled out his sketchbook. 

He drew the crumpled shell of a man sleeping, and above his head a dream bubble full of war - bombs, barbed wire, men with their faces burnt off. At the bottom of the page he wrote,  _ The war never ended for the men who ended the war.   _

He looked back at the post office. 

Down the street he heard the rattle and splutter of an old engine, and a battered Ford pick up truck rolled to a stop in a cloud of fumes. Steve felt his throat tighten and rubbed his sternum reflexively, trying to breath evenly. John leaned out of the window and pointed his thumb at the bed of the truck where Bucky was sitting with some bulky metal pieces. Tucking his sketchbook back into his pack, Steve climbed in. 

 

They drove down the rough, dusty road out of Butte into the hills. There were mountains all around, like being in the mouth of some enormous, sleeping beast, and the land was scrubby, dry, and crisscrossed with barbed wire fencing. The truck turned off the road between two fence posts and rattled down a rutted lane toward a cluster of buildings. 

There was a large ranch house, badly in need of painting, half a dozen sheds and shops, and a huge, run down barn. 

John parked the truck and stepped out of the cab as Bucky helped Steve hop down. “You lot go inside and get a bite to eat. Guy, introduce them to the missus. Norton will help me unload the mouldboard.” A man bent over the belly of a tractor waved a wrench cheerfully.

The kitchen of the ranch house was cool and dim, and Mrs. Weber was a plump, blond young woman with two children underfoot. 

“Uncle Guy!” The older child, a girl maybe four years old, attached herself to his leg. “Are these your friends?” She walked with a limp, and Steve saw that one of her bare feet was twisted in the tell-tale emaciation of polio. 

“That’s right. Everybody, this is Cap and Bucky. This is Mrs. Weber, Anna,” he tapped the little girl’s nose, “And Teddy.” He gestured to a round baby sitting on the floor with a wooden spoon in his mouth. 

Mrs. Weber sat them at the table and sliced thick slabs of bread, smeared with real butter. Anna climbed into Guy’s lap, chattering. “Did you get to ride in the back of the truck? Papa doesn’t let me ride alone, and Ma always rides up front, but sometimes when Jerry and Norton are in the truck, I can ride with them if we hold hands.” 

“Leave the men alone, Anna,” her mother said, picking up Teddy. “Come help me with the washing.” 

Anna pouted, but followed her mother out, holding the wall for extra support. 

“Is she really your niece?” Steve asked. 

“No. She was just at an impressionable age when I was here last summer, and took a shine to me.” Guy brushed crumbs off the table and rested his elbows on it. “So, listen. I’ve had a change of plans. I’m heading out for California tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow?” Steve said, at the same time as Bucky said, “You’re leaving?” 

Guy nodded. “There was a letter for me when I showed up here last night. ” 

“Is everything okay?” Steve asked.

“My sister is getting married. Or, got married. The letter was four months old.” 

“You’re going to see her? That’s a good thing, right?” 

He shrugged.  “She’s married one of the Morita boys. Japanese. My parents will be almost as furious with her as they are with me.” He looked amused by that. “Actually, I imagine his family wasn’t very happy either, but they’re good people. Their orchards are some of the best in the valley. Still, I want to check on her. She’s probably pregnant.” 

“I didn’t know you had a sister,” Bucky said. 

Guy raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t ask.” Bucky shoved a piece of bread in his mouth and looked away. 

 

That afternoon Bucky helped the farmhands set fence posts. John had looked Steve up and down and said to Guy, “Take him to do animal chores.” 

“Why do I get the feeling Mrs. Weber usually does the animal chores?” Steve muttered. 

Guy shrugged. “Think about it this way - do you  _ want _ to spend the day digging four foot holes and pounding posts with a mallet till your arms fall off?” 

They carried a bucket of cracked corn and ground eggshells to the chickens in a coop behind the house, and then lugged four much fuller buckets of grain and kitchen scraps to a sturdy pen where three pigs were sunning themselves in the mud. When they saw the buckets all three of them lurched up and began grunting enthusiastically, pressing their thick, fleshy snouts against the slats of the pen. They were almost waist high, the size of a large dog if a dog was 200 squat pounds of muscle and fat. 

“They’re big,” Steve said stupidly. 

Guy chuckled. “Oh, these aren’t even close to full grown. At least today they didn’t tip over their trough.” Hauling up one of the buckets, he dumped it over the side of the pen into a metal trough. “Sometimes you have to get in there with them and turn it right side up. Same with their water.” 

Steve eyed the animals doubtfully as he passed Guy another bucket. The pigs were jostling one another violently for the food in the trough. “You know a lot about animals?” 

“Well, we weren’t really farmers, but we had a pig most years, when I was growing up. For Christmas meat.” 

“In California?” 

“Home sweet home,” he said, somewhat sardonically. 

“Are… is it going to be ok, going back there? To see your sister?” 

“I’m looking forward to seeing my father turn red trying to decide whether to scream at me or Madeline first,” Guy smiled. “I’ll be fine.” He turned to Steve, suddenly serious. “Are you going to be okay?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean,” he shrugged, empty bucket swinging from his fingers. “Bucky seems to have calmed down some but for a while there I thought… well. I was worried.” 

“That… oh. No,” Steve shook his head vigorously. "It’s not...He’s not like that. I’m sorry about how he’s been. You gotta understand, we've known each other forever, he gets real protective of me sometimes. It's stupid, but he's just like that."

“Protective?” Guy raised his eyebrows. “I don't know, maybe that word means something different in New York." 

Steve crossed his arms. “What the hell does that mean?” 

Guy flashed him a brilliant grin. "Nothing, Cap. Just glad you've got someone looking out for you. You two are quite the pair." He tipped the last bucket into the pig pen. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone quite like you. Bucky’s got his work cut out for him.” 

Steve rolled his eyes. “So people keep telling me.” 

 

That evening the family, the three travelers, and two ranch hands all gathered around the large kitchen table. John said grace, and then Mrs. Weber served real beef stew that made Steve’s mouth water. It was a crowded, noisy dinner that reminded Steve with an ache in his chest of the Barnes’. Looking at Bucky’s face as he passed Anna another slice of bread, Steve thought he was thinking the same thing. It felt unreal, dreamlike, that less than a day ago they had been huddling together in a dark cell opposite the living ghost of a soldier. 

After dinner, the ranch hands built a fire outside the barn and the men sat around it while Mrs. Weber put the children to bed. A bottle was passed around the circle, and Steve watched Bucky closely, but he only took a couple of swigs. Guy pulled out his harmonica and John sang in a surprisingly sweet tenor as the stars came out overhead. Maybe, Steve thought, this was the dream, after all, and the haunted soldier was awake. 

 

He and Bucky were bunking with the ranch hands in the hayloft, with real blankets and relatively soft straw under them. Rodents skittered along the rafters in the dark, but with his stomach full and a real blanket over him, Steve quickly fell asleep. 

He woke in the middle of the night, his bladder aching, straw in his hair. Blearily, he sat up, and shuffled down the ladder from the loft. A horse knickered at him as he passed the stall. Outside, he pissed against the side of the barn, and glanced across the yard as he wiped his hands on his pants. The embers of the fire had died down, but in its glow he could see Guy and John still sprawled on the ground beside it, looking relaxed, shoulders touching. They didn’t make any sign of noticing him. The glass of a bottle glinted in the firelight as John took a swig. 

“So you’re headed back to Fresno?” John said, and Steve paused, about to slip back into the barn. Their voices carried faintly on the chilly thread of wind winding off the mountains. 

The first part of Guy’s response was lost. “...with Madeline. Not to mention my new brother in law.” 

“Will you come back?” 

“Of course I’ll be back some day.” 

John jostled his shoulder, making Guy rock against him. “You know what I mean. It’s hay season, we could use the help.” 

Guy turned, so that his face was lit in profile by the coals. “I know what you mean.” Reaching out, he put a hand on John’s shoulder, sliding up his neck. Steve felt his own neck prickle with the ghostly sense-memory of that touch. 

John grabbed Guy’s hand, halting it, looking for a moment as if he was going to shove him away. Suddenly wide awake, Steve tensed for a fight. “Are you crazy?” John growled. 

Guy just smiled. “Everyone’s asleep,” he murmured. “C’mon. For old time’s sake.” 

“For goodbye, you mean.” 

Shrugging one shoulder, Guy didn’t respond, hand still cradling John’s cheek. It was too far and too dark for Steve to see either of their faces clearly, but he could read the tension in John’s shoulders, the quiet patience in Guy. 

Then John grabbed a handful of Guy’s shirt and yanked their mouths together. The wind carried the sound of a happy, familiar moan as Guy wrapped his arms around John’s neck. Steve stood in the dark door of the barn, heart thundering in his throat, and watched their silhouettes in the firelight as they kissed. When John pulled Guy on top of him, Steve turned away.

 

The next morning Guy looked cheerful, but otherwise showed no sign of his late night activities. John led the breakfast table in a short prayer, and Mrs. Weber served them all eggs and bacon, a luxury Steve could barely comprehend but which was apparently an everyday meal on the farm. He watched her, her husband, and Guy closely, but the three of them were amicable, relaxed. If Steve hadn’t seen with his own eyes the two men rolling on the ground kissing, he would never have believed John was anything other than a dutiful husband, Guy a family friend. It made Steve wonder, as he passed the plate of bacon, how many men like them he had met without knowing. 

When John rose from the table he kissed his wife, and clapped a hand on Guy’s shoulder. “Ready to go?” 

Guy nodded, disentangling himself from a protesting Anna. 

“Can I come with you?” Steve asked. 

The three of them squeezed onto bench seat in the front of the pickup. Steve’s leg was pressed against Guy’s, and Guy, in the middle, had an arm slung along the back of the seat behind each of them.

In Butte, John parked at the edge of the railyard. As they slid out of the truck, Guy slung his pack over his shoulder and put on his hat. “Well.” There was a train on the departure tracks, the brakies making their final inspection. “That’s my ride.” 

John stuck out his hand. “Don’t be a stranger, now, ya’hear?” 

Taking his hand, Guy flashed him one of those smiles. “Never.” They stood facing each other, hands clasped, for maybe just a beat too long. Or maybe Steve was imagining it. “Until next time.” 

“Until next time.” 

Turning to Steve, Guy clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Take care of yourself. And Bucky. If you ever make it as far as Fresno, look up the Moritas, and you can meet my sister.”

“Thanks. For...everything.” 

He winked. “So long, Cap.” 

The train whistle blew, steam billowing into the blue sky. Tipping his hat at both of them, Guy turned and ran along the track, hauling himself up onto the deck of a moving boxcar as nimbly as if he was catching a ladder. The last Steve saw him he was leaning out and waving as the train rolled south, the mountains rising behind. 

 

John left him on main street while he met someone to look at horse tack. Steve found himself standing in front of the post office. He looked up at the eagle emblem over the door. His sketchbook was in his bag. 

A mailman in a clean white shirt and cap, chewing a toothpick, looked up when he opened the door. He eyed Steve up and down, and the toothpick swiveled in his teeth. “You know this is the post office, right? If you’re looking for food, scram.” 

“Yessir, I know that,” Steve said. “I want to mail a letter. Can I do a bit of work in trade for an envelope and stamp?” 

He had a mustache that quivered as he worked the pick between his teeth. Sniffing, he stood back and gestured Steve inside. “There’s a broom behind the counter.” 

Steve swept the floors and the postman handed him a stamped envelope. Taking his sketchbook out of his bag and putting it on the counter, Steve pulled out his penknife and carefully sliced out half a dozen pages and laid them out side by side. 

The postman peered over his shoulder. “Did you draw these?” 

Steve nodded. 

“Huh. They’re not bad.” He reached around Steve and tapped the nearest page, the cartoon of a bulldozer destroying a Hooverville. “You oughta sign them, though. If you’re mailing them somewhere. So people know who did them.” 

“Oh.” Steve pulled his pencil out of his pocket, and hesitated. Then, with a small smile, he scrawled  _ Captain _ at the bottom corner of each cartoon and tucked the whole stack into the envelope. 

He wrote the address with his heart beating fast,  then licked the envelope and sealed it. 

The postman took it and snorted when he read the address. “You know this won’t solve any of your problems, right?” 

Steve lifted his chin. “Maybe not. But it’s something.” 

When he walked out into the daylight, John’s battered Ford was idling by the curb. Down the street, the sheriff was leaning against the wall outside the jail. As he crossed toward the truck and pulled open the passenger door, Steve waved. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes here, historical and otherwise:   
> The vagrancy law is real. Thirty-five cents is about the equivalent of $6.75 today. Law enforcement during the depression wasn't big on actually charging and incarcerating people - who wanted to pay to feed you? But a few days hard labor was about equally likely to just getting dumped on the county line (without any busted ribs if you were lucky, depended on how bad a day the sheriff was having). You could also be arrested for a bunch of other stuff like trespassing, disruption of the peace, being drunk and disorderly. Most of these were local laws that varied from place to place in their specifics and their enforcement. In Seattle, as we'll see in a few chapters, you could be arrested for being "An Indian Woman of Poor Repute" in certain neighborhoods. So there was definitely a racial element going on also. The men riding the rails were overwhelmingly white compared to the demographics of the country, and that was almost certainly because being a POC would have made an already dangerous lifestyle unmanageable. 
> 
> Steve has an asthma attack because Butte is at 5000 ft elevation and our sweet boy is a New Yorker. 
> 
> The theme song for this chapter is Red River Valley. This is the song John sings while Guy plays harmonica the evening around the bonfire on the ranch. 
> 
> Yes, I am from the west, can you tell?


	8. Butte, MT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SPECIAL TREAT! BUCKY POV!

Bucky tried not to think too hard about Steve wanting to go to town with Guy and John. He spent the afternoon stretching barbed wire along the new section of fencing. It was tedious work, and if your mind wandered, you would catch yourself with the barbs even through the leather gloves. He focused on the satisfying _ thud thud _ of the hammer against the fence staples. The sun was hot against his back and sweat trickled beneath the collar of his shirt, but a mountain breeze blew on his face. 

As he worked, he watched a hawk circling lazily in the vivid blue sky. He definitely wasn’t thinking about Steve climbing into the cab of the truck beside Guy or seeing them talking with their heads bent together. He wasn’t imagining the two of them saying their goodbyes. 

What did he think they were gonna do, kiss in the railyard? 

A fence staple slipped in his fingers and he swore, narrowly missing his thumb with the hammer. 

By that evening he’d made significant progress on the fence. John came by to look it over. “Not bad work.”

Bucky sat back on his haunches, wiping a grimy arm across his forehead. “Know my way around a hammer.” 

“You’re a hard worker,” John said gruffly, “I could use another ranch hand and a half. If you ain’t got somewhere to be.” 

  


It was strange to be in one place for more than a night or two. Bucky kept catching himself rationing the water in his canteen before remembering that he could refill it whenever he wanted. 

They were making hay, which involved a lot of driving a tractor around a field and then getting out to swear at the tractor and hit things with a wrench. John worked the baler, and the rest of them hauled heavy bales into the back of the pickup, drove them to the barns, and unloaded them. Sweat plastered his shirt to his back and stung his eyes, and the twine on the bales cut into his palms until they blistered and calloused. The smell of cut grass and horse shit was thick enough to cut in the air, and Bucky didn’t think he would ever be able to smell it again without remembering these afternoons. 

Steve wasn’t much use for any heavy lifting. “At least he don’t eat much,” John said out of the corner of his mouth one afternoon as they watched Steve struggle to haul a bale of hay to the horses. Torn between whether to laugh or to feel irritated on Steve’s behalf, Bucky just shook his head and went to help him with it. 

The other hands weren’t a bad sort. He fell easily into the kind of casual banter that the men working the docks made to pass time, although Newt had an accent out of a Western flick so thick that Bucky missed one in five words he said. Shooting the shit with them made him feel easy in his own skin, like he knew who he was and what was expected of him. He could crack a dirty joke and make the others laugh, and at the end of the day he’d earned the food on his plate. All was right in the world. 

Stacking hay was mindless work, though, and there was plenty of time to get lost in his head as he heaved bales into the barn. 

Steve had been a little subdued the last week, and Bucky hoped he was grateful to have three meals in his belly and a dry place to sleep. Knowing Steve, he was just as likely to be beating himself up over being safe and fed when there were folks in the world who weren’t. The other possibility was worse - that Steve might be missing Guy. 

Nothing personal against the man, except that Bucky wanted to throttle him every time he thought about him touching Steve.

From the beginning, he’d been aware of Guy’s interest and worried that he would take advantage of Steve’s obvious inexperience. While most women turned up their noses because Steve was small, Bucky was well aware that tiny and beautiful were assets in the eyes of certain men -  _ could pick him up with one arm, put him wherever I want him - _ and Bucky’d been prepared to defend him to the death. 

But stupidly, selfishly, he’d gotten drunk instead. 

Bucky heaved a bale of hay to the top of the stack and stopped to take a drink from his canteen. 

He should have seen how upset Steve was. He should have just listened to him and gone to sleep, with Steve safe beside him. Instead he’d seen the two of them leave together and return separately. Someone not used to looking for the signs might have thought it was innocent, but he’d taken one look at Steve, rumpled, dirty, a little dazed, and his stomach had flipped. A dozen alcohol-blurred scenarios had flashed through his head, part nightmare, part guilty fantasy _._ _Steve on his knees with his mouth open, lying on his back, knees spread -_ He was sick with arousal, jealousy and terror that Steve was hurt. 

In the morning Bucky had a brutal hangover, but it was clear that Guy hadn’t pushed Steve into anything, and that was good, of course. Steve was ok, and that was the most important thing. But in a dark, selfish way, it was almost worse.  _ An exception _ , Steve had said, and  _ oh _ that had hurt to hear. But what was he expecting?  _ “It’s you, Buck, it’s always been you”?  _ Of course not. They’d known each other since they were six. Steve didn’t think about him that way, even if he was… even if he did… 

Bucky forcibly reordered his train of thought. If this was something Steve was going to make a habit of - he ignored the painful clench in his stomach - then he, Bucky, was going to be working even harder to look after him. Seedy bars, run-ins with cops, obscenity laws - as if Steve’s penchant for throwing himself into trouble needed an extra dimension.  _ Goddamnit Stevie. Can’t you make my life easy for once? _

“Alright there?” 

“Huh?” Bucky straightened. It was Jerry, looking at him expectantly. The last of the hay was stacked and he was in the truck, waiting for Bucky. “They’ll have another batch ready for us by the time we get out to the field.” 

“Yeah. Coming.” 

  


One evening, John sat down at the dinner table, looking serious. “Talked to Bobby Nolan today. He reckons he’s gotta sell some of his cattle. Thought I might buy ‘em.” 

Mrs. Weber looked up sharply. “You sure we can afford that?” 

“He’ll take trade for hay. And we can afford to pay ‘em some. Sounds as if they need it.” 

Bucky elbowed Jerry and pointed to the salt. 

“You gonna drive ‘em over Skid Creek Road?” Jerry asked, passing the salt cellar to Bucky.  

“Nah, too steep. Take the long way along across the plateau. The three of us and Bobby, plus the dogs should manage.”

“End of the week?” Mrs. Weber asked. 

“Friday,” John nodded, “As long as we get the last of the hay in.”

“Are the Nolans alright?” Mrs. Weber spooned casserole onto Anna’s plate. 

John chewed a mouthful and swallowed. “Worried about foreclosure.” 

“Oh no. Poor Martha and Bobby, with a new baby.” She sighed heavily. “And there, but for the grace of God, we go.”

“Grace of your grand-pappy owning this place outright.” John shook his head. “You can have food on the table every day, but the bank don’t take payment in salt beef.” 

“Like I said.” Mrs. Weber bounced Teddy on her lap. “Grace of God.” 

  


That evening as they climbed into the hayloft - they were sleeping now on top of an enormous stack of bales, the rafters only an arm-length from their faces - Steve said, “What do you think of the Webers?”  

“Good people.” Bucky could hear the blankets rustling as Steve settled nearby.

“Do they seem happy? Together, I mean?”  

“I guess so.” Bucky pushed himself up on his elbows to squint at Steve. “Why?” 

“No reason.” Steve’s face was a pale smudge in the gloom, and Bucky couldn’t make out his expression. 

When nothing further was forthcoming, he settled back, arms behind his head. It was good to be sleeping indoors, but sometimes he missed looking up and seeing the stars last thing before falling asleep. He could hear Steve breathing, slow and familiar. _You could reach out right now, put your hand on his back._ _He’d roll over, look at you, reach toward you…_

Bucky turned over, wrapping his blanket uncomfortably tight around himself and clutching it in both fists just to have something to do with his hands. Sleep was slow to come. 

  


Coming in from a long afternoon of checking fences, Bucky poked his head into the farmhouse. The kitchen was deliciously cool after the blazing sun. Mrs. Weber was mixing dough in a bowl, with Teddy at her feet. 

“Hey, Mrs. W.” Going to the tap, Bucky scrubbed at his hands, splashed water on his face, and, cupping his palms, slurped some to drink. 

“For goodness sake,” she scolded. “There are glasses in the cupboard.” 

“Sorry.” He took one down. “What are you making?” 

“Pie crust.” Her hands were floury, cheeks pink. “Want to know my secret ingredient?” 

“Well, I dunno. If you tell me are you gonna have to kill me?” He grinned his best grin at her, the one that made girls on the dancefloor blush and stammer. 

“I don’t know about  _ kill _ .” She had dimples when she smiled. “I’ve been known to give a mean wallop with a wooden spoon.” 

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “I believe it.” Pale curls had come loose from her bun, framing her face. She was beautiful. Idly, he wondered what it would be like to be married to a woman like her. Sweet and soft.  _ Do you think they’re happy _ ? Steve had asked. 

She pointed her spoon at him. “Tell you what, if you get rich and famous off my pie recipe, you pay me a royalty and we’ll call it even.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” He leaned back against the counter, knowing it pulled his shirt across his chest. It wasn’t a serious play, just… felt good to have a woman look at him, smile at him like that. Like jawing with the men at work - familiar, pleasant. 

The look she shot him, amused and scolding at once, told him that she knew his game. “It’s vodka. When you bake the pie it cooks out and makes the crust flaky.” 

He frowned, distracted from the comfortable warmth of flirtation. “Why would you want a flaky crust?” 

She blinked at him and he blinked back in honest confusion. 

“I mean, pie crust should be… chewy. You know. Like bagels?” 

“Chewy?” she repeated incredulously. “What are bagels? What kind of pie have you been eating?” 

“The right kind?” He waved his hands. “Why does no one in this godda- sorry, gosh darn country know how to make pizza?” 

Her eyes widened, and then she burst out laughing. “Oh my goodness. I don’t mean pizza pie. I mean  _ pie _ pie. Like apple pie!” 

  


Steve’s face creased with laughter when Bucky told the story later that evening, sitting on the porch under the early stars. It was good to see him smile. 

He had put on a little weight from Mrs. Weber’s cooking. There was a knot in Bucky’s chest that constricted painfully every time he thought about Steve going hungry and being unable to do anything about it.  _ You had to get it into your head to go on this fool’s errand, and of course he wanted to come. You shoulda put your foot down, but God knows you can’t say no to Steve about anything.  _ If it weren’t for him, Steve would be safe at home with Ma and the girls. 

But if he said that to Steve, he would just blink at him and say, “Don’t be stupid, Buck.” Or worse, if he had an attack of sentiment, he might say something like, “You know I don’t want to be anywhere without you.” And  _ goddamn _ , what was he supposed to do when Steve turned those baby blues on him and said shit like that? 

Change the subject fast, usually. Adjust himself in his trousers, sometimes. 

And that was just sick, to get hard when his best friend looked at him. They were like brothers, and even if Steve… even if he did… he wouldn’t want it with Bucky; it would mess up their friendship, and then where would they be? Steve needed someone to look out for him, and Bucky - well. 

He put his chin on his knees, staring out into the blue darkness at the barns and the black mountains behind them. 

  


Horses were alright. There were still plenty in New York, and Bucky was used to them. Cows though - turns out they were as big as horses and twice as skittish, and when they were scared they didn’t shy and run like horses did. They put their heads down like they meant to charge you. 

Steve laughed his ass off when he saw Bucky backing away from an irritable cow, his arms full of hay, but it wasn’t funny. She was being kept in the barn to help with a lame foot, and maybe it was the injury or just her winning personality, but Bucky was sure she wanted to kill him personally.

So Bucky was not looking forward to driving the Nolans’ cattle. He and Steve wouldn’t be along on the drive, of course, because no one was under any illusions that they could sit a horse. But they would be at the ranch, readying gates and corrals to receive them. 

They saw the cloud of dust rising before they could hear the drumming of the hooves. The cattle came around a bend in the road, eyes rolling white in their heads, driven by John, Bobby Nolan, and the hands. It took all of them, including Mrs Weber wearing trousers, to get them corralled. As Bucky slammed the last gate shut, shoulders aching, he reflected that the cowboy life wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. 

Once they had them in corrals, they went to work branding them with the Webers’ mark. That meant running them one by one into a narrow chute where they couldn’t buck or turn around and listening to them bellowing in pain as the brand seared their hindquarters with a smell of burning hair. The calves too small to be trapped in the chute were expertly roped by John, and then held down on the dusty ground while he applied the brand. It was sweaty, smelly work, and by the end of the day they were all covered in dust and cow shit. 

That night Bucky fell asleep almost before his head hit the straw and slept like the dead. He woke aching all over, feeling like… well, like he’d been wrestling fifteen hundred pounds of angry bovine. 

Daylight filtered through the cracks in the wood, air sparkling with motes of dust and straw chaff. Yawning, Bucky rolled over. Steve was already up and gone, but his sketchbook lay open beside his pack in easy arm’s reach. 

It wasn’t as if it was hidden away. 

Curious, sleepy, and a little guilty, Bucky rolled on his stomach and pulled the book toward him. 

The drawing on the open page was stark and startling. 

It was an excruciatingly lifelike portrait of Bobby Nolan astride his horse the day he’d delivered the cattle. Steve’s pencil shaded the heavy shadows under his hat, the grim set of his mouth. The drawing was dark, although the day had been bright. Nolan’s face was at once stoic and pained. 

Flipping to another page, he saw a drawing of little Anna Weber, but instead of her usual beaming smiles and energy, Steve had captured her wincing on her bad leg, leaning against a chair. Her hair hung over her face, and her twisted foot dragged behind her. 

Some of the pages had been sliced out, he noticed. There was a drawing of Mrs. Weber holding a screaming Teddy, clearly at the end of her patience, and there was Jerry the day he’d cut himself on barbed wire, bandaging his hand and looking exhausted. When had Steve had time to draw these? They were heavy, unhappy scenes, and something ached under Bucky’s ribs at the thought of Steve seeing the world this way. 

He turned a page and looked down at a drawing of himself. In the picture he looked weary, almost angry, the page smudged where Steve had erased and redrawn the furrow in his brow and the set of his mouth, like Steve had been struggling to get them right. 

Down below the barn door creaked, and Bucky quickly closed the sketchbook and put it back where he’d found it. He was just leaning back when Steve poked his head over the edge of the hayloft. Light shone in his pale hair. “Hey.” 

“Morning,” Bucky grunted. 

“It’s nearly noon.” 

“Shit.” Bucky started to rub his face and then stopped. Even after scrubbing them three times last night, his hands still stank of cow. “You shoulda woken me.” 

“It’s alright. I think everyone had a slow morning. There’s food on the back of the stove when you’re hungry.” He turned to go back down the ladder. Bucky looked over at the sketchbook. 

“Wait. Steve?” 

Steve paused. “Yeah?” 

Bucky sat up. “I owe you an apology.” 

“Oh?” Steve cocked his head, and looked at him expectantly. “Well, go on then.” 

Bucky fiddled with a piece of straw. “Remember you were talking about Roosevelt, and all the New Deal stuff you wanted to change? And I shut you down?” 

Steve blinked, and his brow furrowed. 

“On the train,” Bucky prompted. 

“Oh. That?” Steve’s shoulders sagged a little, and he shrugged. “I guess. Why?”

“Well I shouldn’ta said that about you not being able to do anything.” Slowly, Bucky shredded the straw between his fingers. “S’not true.” 

“Course it was. You were just straight-talking.”

“No, listen. I was being an asshole. I really think you could do something big with your life.” 

“Me? I’m just a stupid punk who gets in fights I can’t win,” Steve said. 

Bucky felt a familiar mix of incredulity and affection.  _ You’ve got no idea, champ.  _ Brushing bits of straw off his knees, he shook his head. “It takes a special type of stupid to want to fix the world, and you’re it. If anyone can change that big stuff, it’s you.” He swallowed, looking down. “You’re the best person I know.” 

Steve opened and shut his mouth, and then said, “You must know some real shmucks.” The joke fell flat. 

“I mean it, Steve.” It felt urgent somehow, for Steve to understand, to believe in himself for once. Steve thought he was worthless and Bucky felt like he was choking on words trying to explain how wrong he was. “I don’t know how, yet, but I know if you put your mind to it, you’re gonna be big. And I don’t wanna…get in the way.” 

“What the hell’s that mean?”

_ Ah, shit, mind your mouth, Barnes. _ “Nothing. I just want what’s best for you.” 

“Shut up, just shut up.” Steve grabbed his sleeve and Bucky startled back. “ _ Get in my _ … Listen, asshole, I’d be a streak of grease on Flushing Avenue without you. So don’t ever say shit like that. I mean, what the hell’s that even supposed to mean?” He waved his hands wildly. “Everyone who’s ever met us knows you’re the good one, anyway! Mrs. Kowalski said you were my only redeeming feature! Miss Sydney thought I was gonna land you in purgatory. Father McNamara called you my guardian angel, even though he was probably just trying to reassure my mom.” 

“Alright, alright. You’re gonna give yourself an asthma attack. Forget I said anything.” 

“Bucky… you’re not gonna…” Steve’s eyes were wide. “You won’t leave, will you? The end of the line, you said. You promised.”

“Yeah, and I meant it, pal,” Bucky sighed. “I’m not going to leave.”  _ Too selfish for that. _

“Will you quit it with this crap, like I’m a paragon of virtue and you’re some kind of ogre?” 

Bucky flashed a smile that was a good imitation of his usual cocky grin. “Paragon of virtue? I’d never say that. Don’t forget, I’ve known you since you were six. I know every bad thing about you.” 

“Yeah.” Steve looked at him, face suddenly open and serious. “I think you do.” 

Bucky swallowed hard and looked away. They were not talking about this. But wasn’t that just like Steve, to never leave well-enough alone, always pushing, and if he couldn’t do it with anger, he’d do it with honesty so brutal it made Bucky feel like falling down the stairs. 

After a long, silent moment, Steve shifted, straw rustling, and said, “Apology accepted.” 

Bucky just nodded and rubbed a hand over his face. He could deal with this. If it meant keeping Steve safe, he could keep secrets for both of them. Knowing that Steve… It didn’t change anything, he reminded himself sternly. 

_ Who are you kidding, pal? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaah! I love Bucky's voice so much! What do you think? xoxo


	9. On the Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are nearing the finish line! I have added a chapter count, I'm pretty sure I know where we're going and how long it's gonna take to get there.  
> TW for homophobia in this one

The porch creaked and Bucky sat down on the steps beside Steve.

It was September, and a bitter chill had begun to creep down out of the mountains at night. Bucky’s face was brown from the sun where Steve’s was just red and freckled. The summer had flown by. Steve’s hands were calloused with rough work, arms stringy with muscle he had never had before. He’d become used to the thin air and no longer felt on the verge of an asthma attack when he exerted himself. They had been on the Webers’ ranch almost three months. 

Bucky was holding a pair of stained leather gloves in one hand and a battered envelope in the other. Silently, he held it out to Steve. Steve’s heart thumped when he saw the postmark - Brooklyn. The envelope had already been opened, and he drew out the creased pages inside. A gritty wind blew across the barnyard as he began to read. 

_ Bucky,  _

_ Took you long enough. Mother almost fell over when we got your letter finally. She will write back when she recovers from being furious with you over taking two months to send word that you are alright.  _

_ Montana, huh? Becca got a book out of the library about Montana when your letter arrived, and we’ve been looking at photographs. I bet you never thought you’d see mountains like that! Becca’s written you a note of her own already - made me promise not to read it.  _

_ Things here are hard, but ok. Becca’s been missing you a lot, and Naomi is intolerable as ever. The girls have been helping Ma a lot since school’s been out, so I’ve managed to pick up some shifts waiting tables. It’s one of those fancy places uptown, and everyone is a snob, but the tips are ok. I think I got the job because of my looks, to be perfectly honest. I wouldn’t tell you this if you weren’t halfway across the country, but some of the customers are a little free with their hands. Don’t worry, it’s nothing I can’t manage, and since you can’t rightly come storming back from Montana to bang some heads I don’t have to worry about you losing me my job. I get to bring food home from the restaurant at the end of my shift - bet you never thought I’d be serving Ma leftover foie gras? Bet you don’t even know what that is.  _

_ Here’s a bit of exciting news - you remember Tommy Baker? We’ve been going steady for four months and he’s just gotten an apprenticeship with an electrician. He’s working triple shifts to pay for it and keep helping his family, but when he’s done in a year he’ll be making good money. And he hasn’t actually asked me, but the way he talks, I know he’s thinking that we could make a go of it. He’s sweet and always treats me well. I think when he asks I may say yes. Wish me luck!  _

_ Give Steve our love. Don’t wait so long to write, jerk.  _

_ Edith  _

Behind that letter was one from Mrs. Barnes, full of barely-suppressed worry and admonishments to write more often. She said nothing about the family’s financial situation, which made it obvious that she was struggling. Glancing up as he read, Steve saw the tight lines around Bucky’s eyes, the grim set of his mouth. 

The last sheet was from Becca. Her penmanship had improved while they were gone. 

_ Dear Bucky  _

_ I miss you very much and I wish you would come home. Everything is hard here. Ma and Edith work to much, and Naomi has been going around with a ruff crowd, who are all older. If you were here it would be better. Please take care of Steve and come home soon.  _

_ Love,  _

_ Rebecca Sarah Barnes  _

Folding the letters and slipping them into the envelope, Steve looked over at Bucky. There was a muscle standing out in Bucky’s jaw. 

“You okay?” he asked.

“Can’t do a goddamn thing about it, can I? Any of it.” 

Steve looked out at the blue sky and the dusky mountains, as different from Brooklyn as Mars. “We could go back.” 

After a long moment, Bucky shook his head. “Wouldn’t do any good. Back where we started, no money, extra mouths to feed. Like Edith said, I’d just get in the way.” 

They sat in silence. Bucky leaned back on the porch steps, his shoulders not quite bumping Steve’s. Back before - back home, they had often sat with their shoulders pressed together, and now they rarely did. Steve tried not to think about it. They hadn’t spoken all summer about the...thing with Guy, but they had reached a fragile sort of equilibrium. The two of them still cracked jokes at one anothers’ expense, slept side by side in the hayloft, patched each other up from scrapes. If they touched less casually, or if Bucky sometimes got a dark look in his eyes when he thought Steve wasn’t looking… well. By now, Steve wasn’t sure what had changed and what he was merely misremembering or imagining. Maybe they had never been as close as Steve thought. 

“We’ve been living easy here,” Bucky said eventually. “But we haven’t been making anything to send back. That was the whole point, wasn’t it?” 

“You want to move on?” Steve rubbed his thumb across his knuckles. He thought about the gnaw of constant hunger, the suspicious eyes of people in towns, stealing water from spigots, running from the railroad bulls with his lungs burning. He remembered sleeping on the hard ground with Bucky’s body warm against his side and the stars blazing overhead. 

Bucky was nodding. “I think it’s time. I’ll talk to John. Hay season is almost over anyway. We gotta find work that’ll pay a wage.” 

 

Ten days later they were ready to go. John just nodded when he got the news they were going. Mrs. Weber filled their packs with dry beans, jerky, hard cheese and bread, and gave them a tattered wool blanket that they rolled up and strapped to Bucky’s pack - for when the nights got cold, she said. 

Bucky had already written back to his family, telling them they were moving on to find more work and that they would write again when they could include a new return address. Steve tucked a couple of drawings into the envelope - of the farm, the mountains, the dramatic Montana landscape, and one of Bucky smiling across the dinner table. He’d done that one from memory, but it didn’t matter - he could draw Bucky blindfolded. 

They said their goodbyes on a crisp, clear morning in the barnyard, and John drove them into Butte in the pickup. Squished between the door of the pickup and Bucky’s thigh, Steve vividly remembered making the same drive, with Guy between him and John. That day Guy had been relaxed, easy with both of them, and Steve had burned with the knowledge that all three of them shared a secret. By contrast, Bucky between them was, if not stiff, certainly not relaxed. 

They caught out on a westbound freighter. Leaning out of the boxcar to look back, Steve saw John standing in the railyard, the town and the mountains behind him. It was his last glimpse of Butte. 

There were two other men already in the car between stacks of crates, one around their age with his cap pulled down over his eyes, and an older man with a thick red beard. He introduced himself as Reynard. 

Settling himself on the floor of the boxcar, Steve immediately remembered how uncomfortable travelling this way was. He’d gotten spoiled sleeping on straw. Shoving his pack behind him, he made himself as comfortable as he could in the patch of breezy sun by the door. For once he wasn’t exhausted from days on the road, so he sat with his sketchbook on his lap, watching the mountains sliding by. Bucky sat not quite beside him, half in shadow, but where he could look out at the land. 

“If you tried to ride cowboys across this, you’d lose all your cattle down those ravines,” Bucky muttered as the train rattled down a steep incline, the shoulders of the mountains falling away in shadowed crevices full of pointy trees. “Hollywood goddamn lied about the West.” 

“You can’t believe everything you see in the pictures, Buck,” Steve said, sing-song. Once, Bucky might have shoved him, or thrown an arm around him and tried to tickle him or ruffle his hair. Or maybe not, maybe nothing had changed. Steve couldn’t be sure. In any case, Bucky just rolled his eyes. 

The train wound its way down out of the mountains. The taste of the air changed, the sharp, clean wind taking on a warmer smell of dirt and vegetation. Steve frowned down at his map. The Northern Pacific line crossed from Montana in the mountains through a narrow strip of Idaho into eastern Washington. The Rockies shrank behind them until they looked painted on the sky, and low farmland rolled all around them, more like The Dakotas than Montana, but there were snowy mountains still to the west of them, growing larger. 

“How many mountain ranges are there?” Steve wondered aloud. 

Overhearing, Reynard chuckled through his beard. “East coaster, eh?” 

“Brooklyn,” Steve said. 

“Elko, Nevada.” His eyes crinkled. “Never heard of it? Half the silver on those ladies in New York comes out of our mines.” 

“You’re a miner?” 

“No sir. I like the sky too much. I’d rather be a hobo than earn a wage below ground. Anyway, mining’s a good way to die young.”  He eyed them both. “You two look like you’ve done a day’s work more than most city boys. Ranch hands?” 

Steve nodded and Reynard’s beard shivered as he nodded back. “I’ve been out Wisconsin way on a dairy these last few weeks, but I ain’t cut out for getting up at all hours of the night to milk. You would not believe the hours those dairymen keep. I’m gonna see if I can’t catch some work at a saw mill for a bit. That’s good steady work if you aren’t worried about losing a finger or three.”

 

Evening fell, the western mountains turning into blue shadows as the sun sank behind them, while the Rockies to the east glowed stark gold and pink. The days were growing shorter rapidly, no more dreamlike evenings with light in the sky until ten o’clock or later. As he lay himself down with the numbing rattle of the deck under him, Steve saw Bucky unroll the blanket and then hesitate. They would have to be lying close to share it. Something unpleasant and hurt twisted in his stomach as he watched Bucky - there was nothing on his face, but his stillness was enough. 

After a long moment Bucky threw himself down, back against Steve’s side, and tossed the blanket over both of them. Steve let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and closed his eyes with the familiar warmth of Bucky’s body next to his. 

 

Steve woke stiffer than he’d been in months, with his joints numb from the rumbling of the rail and his back still pressed against Bucky’s. Pale morning light blazed through the boxcar door and the cracks in the siding. Bucky muttered as Steve pulled away. 

Reynard was snoring on the other side of the car and the young man who had been sleeping yesterday was sitting in the doorway, legs dangling. Crawling over to him, Steve rubbed his eyes and looked out. His mouth fell open. 

The rail was running along the bank of a river so wide that trees on the other side looked like toys. Sheer cliffs of red rock rose on either side, the river glittering between them, blue morning shadows deep between the buttresses of stone. Overhead the sky scudded with clouds, still faintly pink with dawn. 

Steve gaped. The other boy grinned sideways at his expression. He had a brown face with broad cheekbones and a bright, friendly smile. “Never seen it before?” 

“What river is it?” Steve asked.

“Big River.” 

“I see that.” 

The boy shook his head. “That’s her old name, Wimahl, the big river.” He waved a hand, a little proud, a little proprietary, “It’s the Columbia.” 

“I’m Steve.” He held out his hand. 

“Call me Ty.” 

Pulling out his sketchbook as they talked, Steve gave up almost before he began - there was no way graphite could capture the glittering grandeur of the river and the cliffs, any more than it could render the blue mountains of Butte in the evening, or gold sunlight off the skyline of Brooklyn. Instead of drawing Bucky’s sleeping face again, he sat with the book shut in his lap. 

They swapped stories as the sun rose. Steve told about getting into fights in alleys and dreaming of classes at the Art Students League. Ty talked fondly about winter salmon runs with his family, digging clams at low tide on the coast. “Course, you can’t feed yourself that way no more,” he said, rubbing his knuckles against his chin. “Timber is the name of the game now.” They had both spent whatever pennies they had to spare on cinema tickets; Ty hitching rides the long distance from the res to the nearest large town, Steve taking the short walk to Jamaica Street with Bucky. 

All Steve’s stories eventually came back to Bucky. “You don’t look like brothers,” Ty said. 

“Oh. We’re not. Just friends.”

“Huh.” 

Steve wrinkled his nose. Why the hell did people always make the same face when he told them that? 

 

At midmorning, the train pulled up to a water tower. The river gorge opened to the south of them, and on the other side of the rail the slope rose steeply, clumps of scraggly pines clinging to the sides. Other travellers were jumping down from half a dozen cars along the rail, scattering into the sparse trees as one of the engineers jumped down from the engine, swearing at them. 

As Steve slid down from the car, he caught a whiff of acrid smoke and stopped. Gravel crunched as Bucky jumped down behind him. Steve crouched, peering under the deck of the boxcar at the axel. The box of the axle bearing looked normal, but there was a thin wisp of smoke rising from it, and when Steve carefully put his hand beside it. He could feel heat radiating. “Something’s wrong. It’s like - remember in Dakota, we talked about this? It’s - whaddya call it.” 

Reynard noticed them and leaned down to look. He swore. “Hot box.” 

“That’s right! That’s what Guy called it.” He felt Bucky’s huff of annoyance at Guy’s name. 

Ty stopped too, looking alarmed. “That’s no good.” 

Behind him one of the railroad bulls loomed, a beefy man with a red face and unpleasant scowl. “You rats think you can crawl into our cargo? Get out of here before I take a crowbar to your skulls; it’d be as much as you deserve. Good for nothing bums!” Ty flinched and ducked out of his way, scrambling up the slope away from the rails, Reynard behind him. 

“Hey-” Steve began. 

Bucky grabbed his arm and hauled him off the track into the scrubby pines. “Are you crazy? C’mon. They’ll find it, it’s their job to check.” 

They joined a group of other riders waiting in the trees. The bull spat in their direction and moved on. On the other side of the train, the long arm of the water tower levered out with a groan and the glug of the water tank filling could be heard over the rustle of the wind and the low conversations around them. 

The the bull finished his circuit of the train, stopping to yell at a few other stragglers before returning to the engineer leaning by the water tank. 

“They’re not checking,” Steve said. “They’re not gonna check.” 

Ty swore. “I’m not getting back on that train.

Reynard whistled through his teeth. “Jesus. They’re gonna have a fire on their hands. Or worse, send us right off the rails.” 

“Lazy idiots,” Bucky muttered. “Goddamn.” 

The arm of the water tower had been winched back in. Further down the train, other travellers who hadn’t heard them talking were climbing back into their boxcars. 

Ty grabbed Steve’s arm. “We gotta warn the others.” 

“You go.” Shaking him off, Steve turned and began to hurry up the rail, toward the front of the train and the engine car. 

“Steve,” Bucky shouted. “Steve, what the hell?” 

The whistle blew and Steve broke into a run, a stitch burning in his side, lungs tight. The gravel crunched and slipped underfoot and the air tasted of coal smoke. Behind him he could hear Bucky yelling. 

Then he was looking up at the door to the engine, reaching up for the handle just as the train began to move with a cough of steam and a squeal of metal. 

There was a furious face looking out at him and the door was flung open, barely missing knocking Steve on his back.

“Please sir,” he panted. “There’s a hotbox in one of the cars.” 

The angry bull scowled at him. The engineer over his shoulder said, “What did the kid say?” 

“Says a hotbox,” he muttered. 

“Well Christ, Don. Go look at it.” There was a screech of metal, a squeal of steam, and a groan from the hot engine as the engineer engaged the brakes. 

Don shot Steve a furious glare but climbed down from the engine. “This had better not be some kind of prank,” he growled. “And I’d better not find we’ve got a hotbox because some of youse bums been stealing the rags.” 

They went trekking back down the line and Steve pointed. Don knelt, scowled, and straightened. He didn’t say anything to Steve, but called back to the other engineer who was leaning out of the engine. “Hotbox!” he shouted. “We gotta get it packed back up.” 

At a distance, the other rail riders were standing in watchful, silent clusters. Bucky was hovering, arms crossed tightly across his chest, wearing an expression like Mrs. Barnes on a bad day. 

The engineer came down the line with a tool box and a can of oil. It only took ten minutes to pop the box open, stuff more packing around the axel, and pour in fresh oil. 

Getting to his feet, the engineer wiped his hands on a filthy grease rag and turned to Steve. “That was a good thing you did.” He clapped Steve on the shoulder, leaving a grease mark on his shirt. “And if you and your friends wanted to get back on the train about here, I’m sure I wouldn’t know anything about it.” Turning to the others gathered around, he gestured with one arm like a conductor. “All aboard!” 

There was a murmur of surprise from the travellers, and Don made a disgusted face, but said nothing. The other travellers began to climb back into their cars. Reynard’s beard moved as his mouth did something inscrutable. “I’ve never seen anything like that in all my years on the rail.” 

Bucky slung an arm around Steve’s shoulders and said. “That’s because you’ve never met Steve Rogers before.” His fingers were curled in the fabric of Steve’s sleeve, warm through the cotton against his skin. It seemed like ages since Bucky had touched him like this. With a tremulous, warm feeling in his chest, Steve leaned into Bucky’s side, tipping his head against Bucky’s shoulder.

Back in the boxcar, Reynard shook his head as the locomotive lurched and began to move down the rail.  “You ain’t much to look at, but you’ve got a head on your shoulders.” 

Steve shrugged. Bucky was still sitting close beside him. “Someone had to do it.”

Reynard hummed thoughtfully. “You know, I’m catching a spur line up Wind River to a logging camp I know. I bet I could get you a job if you want.” 

Wind River spilled into the Columbia in a rocky, rapid tumble. The train rumbled across a trestle bridge and pulled up at a water tower in the small town on the other side. Steve and Bucky said goodbye to Ty, who was riding west to the coast, and followed Reynard to the departure tracks. 

They wound up through the river valley into the mountains, past patches of farmland and grazing cattle cradled between rising slopes of the land. The mountainsides were mostly bare brown dirt, broken only by a few stands of thick green trees. They had seen clearcuts everywhere in the west, except for the steepest peaks.

At midafternoon they rolled into the logging camp. The first thing Steve noticed was the sharp, piney smell of sawdust, which grew stronger as the train chugged into camp. It was a squat, sprawling compound with mill buildings billowing steam and the scream of saw blades filling the air. Logs as thick around as a man was tall were stacked three stories high beside the rail line. Everything was a uniform color of dust and mud. 

Hopping down from the slowing train, Steve and Bucky stayed close to Reynard, who led them across the compound to the foreman’s office. It was a low building, the inside crammed with stacks of paper and maps tacked to every wall. A secretary, the only woman present, was typing furiously at a typewriter. The foreman himself was a bulky man with a weathered face and two fingers on his right hand. 

Reynard had worked sawmills before, and the foreman grunted approvingly at his experience. He turned his eye to Bucky. “Good worker?” he asked. 

“Yessir.” 

The foreman turned to Reynard, who nodded, although he had no reason to know, really. “Alright. We’ve always got use for a strong lad.” He turned to Steve, looking doubtful. 

“He’s little but reliable,” Reynard said. “Got a good head on his shoulders, trustworthy.” 

The foreman eyed Steve up and down, bushy eyebrows waggling. “Mess duty,” he said finally. “Hope you can cook, kid.” 

 

The mill camp was a bustling, muddy town of its own, with barracks and a mess hall, a company store, and the booming, roaring, squealing of the mills at all hours of the day. Logs came in on sleds behind trucks, or floated down the river, and were fed into the hungry machines of the mill, coming out as smooth boards and stacks of shingles. Clouds of sawdust billowed across the camp, tickling Steve’s throat and smelling overwhelmingly of pine. 

Steve didn’t see much of the operation of the camp. His days started in the dark. The kitchen supervisor kicked him out of his bunk an hour before the whistle blew for the rest of the men, and he spent all day with a dozen others in the steamy, booming cavern of the kitchen, sweating through his shirt. By the end of each day, his arms ached from hauling water and chopping potatoes, his feet were sore from standing all day, and his knuckles were raw from scrubbing pots in hot water. 

He didn’t see much of Bucky either. During the hour the men had for dinner, Steve was hard at work, and while Steve had an hour of rest in the afternoon, Bucky was working the mills, or out with the logging crews. But every evening he scanned the crowded tables of the mess until he saw Bucky, and Bucky was always looking back at him. When they crawled into their bunks at night, they were too tired to do more than exchange a few words, but despite the thin, bug-riddled pallet and the snores of the other men, Steve slept well knowing Bucky was safe on the bunk below him. 

Most days there was a knot of worry in his chest until he saw Bucky in the evening. All the work at the mill was dangerous, and going out with the logging crew even more so. Men could be crushed by a wayward log, fall from a tree top, or lose hands, limbs, or lives to the vicious teeth of the mill saws. 

One afternoon, the emergency bells began ringing and people from all over the camp converged on the round saw. A jammed log had splintered and sprung free with such force that it drove thick staves of wood through men’s bodies at a dozen paces. Steve, urgently craning to see through the crowd, caught only a glimpse of four bloody men being carried away. 

“Who was it?” he asked a man nearby. “Does anyone know? Who was hurt?” 

The man shook his head. “Can’t hardly see under the blood.” 

“Will they live?” 

He shrugged.

Pushing through the crowd, Steve grabbed at people’s sleeves, stopping anyone he could. “Who was it? Did you see?” He didn’t even know if Bucky was in camp or out logging. 

“Back to work, everyone,” the foreman bellowed. The whistle blew and the crowd started to disperse. 

“Just like that?” Steve exclaimed. 

A man standing beside him gave him a disbelieving look. “We’re not getting paid to stand around, are we?”

“But people were hurt. It could have been anyone!” 

The man shrugged. “It’s a living.” He walked off. 

Steve spotted Reynard, his red hair visible head and shoulders above the others, and edged his way toward him. “Reynard! It wasn’t Bucky, was it?” 

Reynard shook his head, opening his hands. “I don’t know. Couldn’t see.” 

Turning helplessly, Steve looked around. People met his eyes, shrugging and walking away. His heart was pounding in his throat. 

“Steve!” 

He turned, almost shaking with the flood of relief, and saw Bucky coming toward him. “Bucky,” he gasped. Grabbing his shoulders, Steve pulled him into a fierce hug. He pressed his face against Bucky’s collar, breathing in the familiar smell of his sweat and skin under the clean scent of pine. After a startled moment, Bucky’s arms came up around him, and he felt the last tension drain out of his body as Bucky squeezed him back. 

Conscious that they were standing in the middle of the yard surrounded by strangers, Steve forced himself to pull away, even though he wanted nothing more than to bury his face in Bucky’s neck and never let go. His heart was still thudding, making him feel shaky. “You’re alright,” he mumbled. 

“Yeah.” Bucky’s hands flexed on his arms, and then he released Steve. “I’m alright.” Over Bucky’s shoulder, he saw Reynard nod at them. Steve rubbed his hands on his trousers. He could still feel the tremble of adrenaline through his body as his heartbeat slowed. There was sawdust in Bucky’s hair. His chest felt tight. 

“I gotta go back to work.” Bucky jerked his head. 

“Yeah. Yeah.” Steve swallowed. “Be safe.” 

“Yeah,” Bucky gave him a look that Steve couldn’t quite decipher, and squeezed his shoulder again before walking away. 

 

A couple of weeks later Bucky caught up with him outside the kitchens in the evening. “Don’t you have late shift?” Steve asked as Bucky fell into step beside him. 

“Nope, I took early this morning.” 

The night air was cool, and Steve hardly noticed the smell of sawdust anymore, although his throat often tickled with it. Last week, they had sent their first paycheck back to New York. It wasn’t a lot after settling their debts at the company store, but Bucky’s face as he put the stamp on the envelope was more quietly proud than Steve had seen in months. 

They were crossing the yard away from the lighted doorway of the kitchen, toward the barracks. Bucky was grinning in the faint light. “Guess what?” 

“What? Finally got the clap?” 

“No, asshole. I’m gonna be trained as a tree-topper.” 

Steve’s heart flipped. “What?” 

“Yeah. Ain’t that something? Logging head says I’ve got the build and the strength for it. And I don’t mind heights.”

Tree toppers were legendary in camp. Climbing in a harness, they scaled a hundred, two hundred feet up a trunk, lopping off limbs as they went. Working with a saw at the swaying top of the tree, they sliced through the canopy, letting the top fall without catching them on the way down. It was daredevil, fearless, showy work. Tree toppers climbed on top of the severed trunks, hundreds of feet above the ground, and took bows to the cheers of their fellows down below. They competed to climb and cut faster than their peers, reckless with haste. Back in camp, men bought them drinks and they told stories about their feats. Of course Bucky wanted to try it. 

Steve swallowed. “Buck, that’s dangerous.”  

“Aw, you worried about me, doll?” He slung an arm around Steve’s shoulders. 

Behind him, a gruff voice called, “You got a cute girlfriend there. She any good with that sweet mouth?” 

Bucky froze. Beside him, Steve tensed, skin prickling with deja vu. 

A dangerous smile on his face, Bucky pulled away from Steve and swung around. “Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you.” 

There was a tall man behind them, who Steve vaguely recognized from the mess hall. “Got a problem, faggot?” 

Steve opened his mouth, about to do something - protest, warn - but before he found the words, Bucky had landed a punch squarely in the man’s chest, knocking him backward with a grunt. He fell into the mud with Bucky on top of him, hands clenched in his shirt, Bucky’s knee on his chest. “Who’re you calling a faggot?” Bucky spat.

“Bucky!” Steve yelled. 

The man was burly, and with a moment to recover his breath bucked up so violently that Bucky’s hold was broken. They sprawled apart on the muddy ground. “Being brave in front of your girlfriend?” the man sneered. 

Bucky leapt at him, and they grappled in the dirt. There was the sick thumping of fists hitting flesh, grunts and swearing from both of them. 

“Stop it! Bucky, stop!” Other people were shouting too, and then stronger men than Steve were pulling them apart. Steve’s heart lurched as he saw the blood on Bucky’s face.

“What’s this?” The small crowd turned as the foreman approached, face grim in the dark. He looked between Bucky and the other man, both being restrained by others. “Come to my office at whistle tomorrow,” he grunted. “Both of you.” He stomped off, and Bucky swore, shaking off the hands holding him. 

The other man spat. “Hope you’re happy, faggot.” 

 

Back in their barracks, Steve shoved Bucky onto the lower bunk. “What the hell was that?” Kneeling down beside the bed, he poured water on his handkerchief and tried to wipe blood off Bucky’s split lip. “Starting fights is my job.” 

Bucky batted him away, not meeting his eyes. “He had it coming,” he muttered. The room was empty and dark. 

“We’d never get through the day if we stopped to fight everyone who had it coming,” Steve said, in what he thought was a reasonably calm tone. 

Bucky snorted, starting his lip bleeding again. “Who are you, and what have you done with Steve Rogers?” 

“Hold still.” Steve pressed the handkerchief against Bucky’s split lip, intensely aware of the faint warm waft of Bucky breath against his fingers. “You didn’t have to...” He stopped, swallowed, looked away from Bucky’s bloody mouth. “I’ve been called worse.” His eyes flicked up to Bucky’s face, but Bucky was looking away, gaze fixed on the splintered boards of the wall. He twisted the handkerchief in his hands. “Anyway. It’s not like it’s not true.” 

Bucky jolted, eyes snapping toward him. 

Steve blinked, and felt himself flush violently. “About me, I mean! Not about you, obviously.” His voice was too loud and there was a buzzing in his ears. Bucky’s eyes were wide in the dark. 

“I don’t - I didn’t,” he stuttered. There was still dried blood on Bucky’s face, and his lower lip was swollen. Steve felt his eyes dip down to Bucky’s mouth and snap back up. His stomach flipped when he saw Bucky staring at him. Then, so suddenly he startled, Bucky turned over on the bunk and put his back to Steve. 

“Go to bed, Stevie,” he grunted. 

Sitting on his heels, Steve stared at the tense line of Bucky’s back, the curl of his shoulders, and felt his heart pound sickeningly in his throat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU all for waiting so patiently. The next few chapters should be quicker, I already have big chunks of them written. Your comments and kudos are absolute gold to me, they motivate me to keep going. 
> 
> If you want to see some shit that will blow your mind, check out this 1920s footage of a man tree topping at 10:10 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p27MX9Vy4Jk


	10. On the Road to Seattle WA

 

The next morning, Steve followed Bucky to the foreman’s office. The other man was already there. He sneered when he saw them walk in together, but said nothing in front of the foreman. Bucky was tense and silent. He’d been avoiding Steve’s eyes all morning. 

The foreman sat down at his desk. “I don’t care who started it. I don’t know what happened and I don’t want to know, but we don’t need that kind of attitude here. You’ll get your last paycheck, everything you’re owed, and then you’re out, both of you.” He flicked his eyes at Steve. “You can stay if you want.” Steve shook his head and ignored the other man’s snort. The foreman shrugged. “Alright. Pack your things, I want all of you on the morning train.” 

Outside the foreman’s office, Bucky and the other man exchanged venomous glares that made Steve tense, even though he didn’t really think Bucky would start anything right in front of the foreman’s door. That was more something Steve would do, like that time outside  the principal’s office with Ned Greely. Instead, Bucky just rolled his eyes sharply and turned his back, stalking away with Steve scurrying after him. 

The morning train had been full of coal, and although it was empty after delivering its load to the camp, the dusty hoppers were still hell on Steve’s lungs - they’d learned that from grain cars in the midwest. Instead of climbing inside one, they rode the blinds, crouching on the narrow ledge at the back of the car, buffeted by the wind and unable to talk without shouting, fingers cramping as they held onto the steel ladder rungs. It was only forty minutes down the spur line to the Columbia, but it was a chilly, overcast day, and Steve was numb with cold by the time they stumbled off in the tiny town along the main Columbia line. 

In the rail yard they loitered behind a parked engine, hiding from the bull. By habit, they were waiting for a westbound freighter, but there wasn’t that much further west they could go. Steve pulled out his sketchbook and it fell open to the map. The page was stained and soft with wear, the pencil marks smudged and faint. 

“We’re about to run out of rail,” Steve said, looking up. 

Bucky grunted. He was leaning against the dusty side of the engine with his arms crossed, scowling into the middle distance. 

“You okay, Buck?” 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“I just… Sure. Fine.” Steve shook his head and tapped the map. “We go much further west and we’ll be underwater. So are we headed north or south?” When Bucky didn’t respond, Steve rolled his eyes to himself, thinking aloud. “North is Seattle, and a bunch of other towns on the water. Not the ocean, looks like… a big inlet? A bay? But port towns anyway, we could look for work there. Or we could go all the way to Canada, hell, we could keep going till we met Eskimos.” Bucky wasn’t even listening. Steve narrowed his eyes. “Or, you know, Guy said that if we headed to California we could stop at his sister’s place. He might even still be there. He was headed down to see her, wasn’t he?” 

Bucky twitched and clenched his jaw. “Seattle,” he bit out, not looking around. 

Steve closed the notebook and pressed it between his hands, feeling vindicated and a little foolish. California might have been nice, actually, warmer and sunny. Served him right for being childish, he thought as he stuffed the book back into his pack, but there was something hot and satisfied in his chest knowing he could still get a rise out of Bucky like that. “Seattle,” he agreed. 

 

Western Washington was the greenest place they had been since the Great Lakes. The train wound its way north, following one of the tributaries of that drained into the Columbia, a waterway as wide as the East River. The river valley was low and gentle, none of the steep cliffs and rocky gorges that Steve had come to associate with rivers of the west. There was no sign of the drought here. Wide bowls of green farmland lay between forested hills, and beyond them mountains, always mountains. 

The towns they passed through were bustling railroad towns with grain elevators and saw mills on the river, houses and barns well-kept. It was prosperous and lush, in jarring contrast to the dust and mud of the logging slopes, the drought-dry fields of the Dakotas, or the poverty of Chicago, Rochester, and Brooklyn. Fingers tight around his sketchbook, Steve thought that if he were to draw the American dream, it would look like this tiny sliver of green along the west coast, as much a fantasy to most of the country as flying to the moon. 

Six months ago, the lush fields would have looked unremarkable to Steve, acres and acres of grass notable only for its vibrant color. But after spending the summer on the Weber’s ranch, Steve had inadvertently learned something about hay, and found himself assessing the quality of each field they passed. It was fertile land. 

He thought about saying something, cracking a joke about how in Brooklyn he’d thought hay was something you shouted at people. But Bucky’s face was closed off and uninviting. His lip was still swollen, a purple bruise darkening his jaw. Steve wanted to touch it, gently like he had done last night, pressing his fingers against Bucky’s mouth. His chest ached. In all the years they’d known each other, he had rarely felt this far from Bucky, unsure of what he could say or do to bridge the distance between them. 

 

The unmistakable smell of the ocean hit Steve’s nose and he rolled off the sack he’d been drowsing on, poking his head out the door of the box car. They had reached the water, the train tracks running just feet from the shore like they had by the Hudson and the Columbia. This was saltwater, his nose told him, but it wasn’t the Pacific. There were jagged, snow-capped mountains on the other side. For a moment he was disoriented, thinking he was looking east, back at the mountains they had already crossed. But no, the sun was in the wrong place. There were still mountains to the west of them. 

“How many goddamn mountain ranges does one country need?” he wondered aloud, and heard Bucky snort behind him. 

Startled and pleased, Steve looked around, but Bucky was avoiding his gaze. Steve sighed and turned back to his view. 

The train rolled along the shoreline and Steve watched the sun lower itself above the mountains and the water, slow and blazing. It was strange to watch the sun set over water - it made him feel turned around, like he was watching dawn backward and time was the thing mixed up, not the land. 

The sun had settled into a bank of clouds above the mountains and cast the world into gray and blue dimness by the time Seattle came into view. 

It was a city. It was small compared to New York - you could see all of it at one glance from the southern approach of the railroad curving around the bay. But it had a busy harbor, thronging docks, smoke stacks and buildings taller than three stories. The urban smell of coal smoke and diesel fumes mixed with a potent low-tide stink of fish and seaweed as the train rolled closer. It was the biggest town they’d seen since Chicago. Maybe there would be someplace to go dancing, that would cheer Bucky up. Steve felt a lightness in his chest, even as the dirty air made it noticeably harder to breathe. 

They hit the grit in the sprawling railyard south of the city and were immediately at the edge of a Hooverville lying between the train tracks and downtown. It was like every other they had passed through - bits of scrap wood, corrugated iron, and faded cloth cobbled together into a miniature version of the city that towered over it. Cooking smoke rose from several crooked chimneys, and flickering lamp light shone within the shacks. As they picked their way through, Steve kept his eye out for any likely-looking overhangs where they might be able to sleep. The sky was heavy with clouds, threatening rain. One night in Illinois they had huddled under a dripping tree all night while rain poured down, but since then they had been lucky enough to have shelter when it was wet. Steve was trying not to think about the fact that it was September, and rain or snow would become inevitable before long. All the more reason to go to California, he thought irritably.  

Although evening was coming on fast, the docks and the streets around them bustled with the familiar chaos of a port town. Sailors and stevedores jostled and swore. Fishing boats unloaded their catch and mended their nets. Well-dressed merchants rubbed shoulders with grimy laborers and street walkers. No one looked twice at the two of them. Steve found himself ginning helplessly. 

Having real money on hand was a novel experience. He remembered the alien, claustrophobic feeling of walking through Chicago penniless. Now that he had a few dollars to his name, he felt much more at ease.

They bought some small silver fish with crispy brown skins that dripped with oil from a stall on a pier and ate them hot, licking the salt and grease from their fingers. A warm, fairly bought meal made Steve feel almost comfortable, and he could see some of the tension unwinding from Bucky as well. 

They wandered the muddy streets, enjoying the clamor of an urban crowd. It was the first time since Brooklyn that he’d heard Chinese spoken, and there was German too, and Polish like the Kowalskis downstairs spoke. A fishmonger hawked raw oysters, just like you could buy from a stall at Coney Island if you had a taste for them and didn’t mind the substantial risk of being sick as hell from a bad one. As they passed a newsstand, Steve saw the familiar header of the New York Times and almost stopped to pick it up, flooded by the mad thought that he might find news of the Barnes, or the Kowalskis or the Horowitzes, or any of the other familiar faces they had left. He shoved his hands in his pockets instead. 

Bucky’s shoulders had relaxed and he was looking around curiously at the city, clearly judging it against home just like Steve was. “At least it’s not Chicago,” he muttered. “I like it already.” 

Steve laughed and hopped over a puddle. “It’s a little small.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bucky’s mouth quirk up in a smile. “Just like you, pal.” 

“Hey!” Steve was still holding the wad of greasy newspaper that the grilled fish had been wrapped in, and he threw it at Bucky. 

Bucky dodged easily. Any other time, he might have tackled Steve for that (never chased him, not with his bad lungs) but he just made a face and kept walking. 

One thing that set Seattle apart from anywhere he’d ever been was the hills. They rose steeply from the water, brick buildings clinging to every slope, and didn’t stop rising. Walking up one particularly steep street, Steve had to stop every few steps to catch his breath.

He was so focused on putting one foot in front of the other and breathing evenly so his lungs didn’t close that he had gone half a dozen steps before he realized Bucky wasn’t beside him. Turning back, he saw Bucky staring up at a red lantern above a doorway. A sign that said  _ Blue Rose Saloon  _ swung beside it _. _ Steve’s gaze flicked back and forth between the sign, the red glass lamp, and Bucky’s face. 

Bucky raised his eyebrows. “Whaddya think, Stevie?” 

“Is that…?” 

“It sure is.” The grin on Bucky’s face wasn’t comforting. “We could stop for a drink. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t say no to some company.” 

Steve swallowed. “We’ve got to find a place to stay tonight.” A damp chill had rolled off the water as the sun went down, and Steve was not relishing sleeping rough in the Hooverville. 

“We can stay here.” Bucky tipped his chin toward the door. 

“I don’t think…” Steve’s throat was dry. “I’m not- I don’t want -” 

“Nah, I mean they rent rooms with or without a girl. If it’s anything like the places back home.” 

_ What do you know about places like that _ ? Steve wanted to ask, but he shut his mouth tightly. 

“C’mon. We just got paid. I want to live a little.” Something dangerous and hard glittered in Bucky’s eyes. “Unless you’re scared.” 

“I’m not!” he yelped, although his heart was pounding. “Bucky…” 

But Bucky was already stepping through the door beneath the red lantern. With his heart in his throat, Steve followed him. The main room of the brothel looked just like any other bar - perhaps a bit cleaner than usual, and with a more feminine aesthetic to the decor, with paintings of flowers on the walls. A dozen small tables were arranged around the room, where couples or small groups sat talking. Several young women were lounging at the bar, scantily clad and surveying the room. 

Their eyes fixed on Bucky and Steve as they entered, and Steve felt Bucky square his shoulders before sauntering forward. Unless you knew him, you wouldn’t be able to tell that he was nervous. 

Steve knew him. He was almost sure Bucky had never done this before - hired a girl, that is. Back home with his family to look after, he’d never have wasted money this way. Most nights he seemed to care more for dancing with girls than taking them home, anyway. Bucky’s shoulders were set confidently as he approached the bar. Steve was  _ almost _ sure. 

The woman behind the bar was older than the girls, lines creasing around her eyes, although her face was meticulously painted. Her pin curled hair was dyed dark, gray at the roots. “What can I get for you, sweetheart?” 

Bucky ordered drinks for both of them without looking at Steve and leaned his elbows on the bar. Steve lingered awkwardly behind him. The room smelled like perfume and cigarette smoke. His lungs felt tight. “Do you even know what you’re doing?” Steve muttered. 

“Can’t be that different than picking up any other girl,” Bucky returned under his breath. “‘cept it’s a sure thing.” Sipping his drink, Bucky put his back to the bar, slouching a little and displaying his long legs, letting his eyes drift meaningfully over the girls. Sure enough, a few of them were looking back. 

Steve’s face was burning, his shoulders hunched up around his ears, which were probably bright red. He tried not to look at anyone. Surely it was rude to stare, even here. For lack of anything better to do, he took a sip of the drink Bucky had bought him. The watered whiskey burned on his tongue. 

There was a rustle behind them and Steve glanced around helplessly, feeling jumpy and overheated. One of the girls was coming toward them. She had sandy hair, perfectly curled, with freckles across her nose and vividly painted lips. Her dress was unbuttoned down to her cleavage, but otherwise she could have been any girl in a bar, a confident swing in her hips as she approached. Bucky had always liked straight-forward girls. 

A few steps away from them at the bar, she halted, her eyes flicking to the older woman. “Mind if I join you?” It was directed both at Bucky and the madam. 

The madam leaned across the bar, eyeing his split lip and bruised jaw. “You look like you got a little rough with someone recently. I only want gentlemen for my girls.” 

“I’m glad to hear that, ma’am.” Bucky gave her his sincerest look. “Got in a fight with someone who wasn’t a gentleman.” 

“Hmmm.” The madam gave him a piercing glare and Bucky blinked back innocently. She looked at the girl and gave her a small nod. 

Immediately, the girl slid onto the bar stool beside Bucky, leaning into his space. “I’m Patsy.” 

Steve looked away and tried not to listen. He’d watched Bucky chat up a girl so many times he could recite the script by heart. Instead, he looked around the room, trying not to stare at the other patrons or any of the girls. There was an uninspired still life of flowers on the wall above an upright piano. His fingers itched for his sketchbook, but surely that would be impolite. He didn’t usually draw strangers without asking first. The drink in front of him sweated water onto the bar. 

He accidentally caught the madam’s eye, and she raised an eyebrow at him. “You lonely too, sweetheart?” 

Steve shook his head urgently. “No,” he managed. 

Her face softened, and she nodded. “Well, let me know if you need another drink.” He could feel his face get even hotter, wondering what she thought. 

Bucky looked over. For a horrible moment, Steve thought he might say something like  _ Are you sure?  _ Or  _ You should try it. _ But he said nothing, just looked back at Patsy, nodding at something she’d said. Leaning over the bar, he said, “Mind if Patsy and I get a room, ma’am?” 

“Money up front. Twenty dollars for a straight lay.” 

_ Twenty dollars? _ Steve almost blurted as Bucky handed over the money. That was a quarter of Bucky’s last paycheck. It was extravagant and irresponsible, but he wasn’t about to scold him for it in public like some kind of nagging wife. He could do what he wanted with his money, although Steve knew that he would still buy food for both of them with his own paycheck if it came to that. 

Steve didn’t watch as the two of them headed toward the stairs at the end of the room. He tapped his fingers on the bar. How long would it take? Usually Bucky would leave with a girl and come home late, or not at all. Steve had no idea how long he would spend... intimately... with someone. They’d be at the top of the stairs now. Now opening a door - the room in his imagination was hazy, just a bed. Would Bucky be tipping her chin up to kiss her? Steve had watched Bucky kiss girls many times, always with a curl of something hot in his belly. Her lipstick would smear across his mouth. Would he put his hands on her shoulders? Her hips? Her breasts? 

Pressing the heels of his hands firmly against his eyes, Steve pulled out his sketchbook, immediately feeling a little calmer once it was in his hands. But putting the pencil to the paper stalled him again. The only images in his head were of Bucky, naked, but like Steve had never seen him - bent over someone, cupping their face as they kissed, their legs wrapped around him. He pictured the arc of Bucky’s back, the curves of his arms, the dimples of muscle above his ass. 

Swallowing hard, Steve looked around the room for something - anything - else to draw. His eyes fell on the girl a few seats down from him. She wore a red dress open all the way down her front that showed her girdle and had black hair piled up on her head, little wisps trailing down her long neck. 

Steve clenched his fingers around his pencil. “Excuse me.” She didn’t appear to hear him. He cleared his throat and tried a little louder. “Um. Excuse me.” 

“Yes? Oh, hello hon. Did you change your mind?” 

Steve blushed furiously. “No. I just - was wondering if I could draw you?” She quirked an eyebrow at him, and he stumbled on. “Just right here, I mean. You can keep the picture when I’m done, I just… you look nice.” It sounded weak to his ears, but the woman eyed him for a moment and then nodded. Steve breathed out. 

Her expression was bland, and Steve tried to capture the edge of boredom beneath her vacant smile, the disorder of her dark curls. It was not an erotic drawing, although her pose was studied to be alluring while effortless to maintain, legs splayed, chest pushed forward. Steve drew the angles of her rather than the curves - her knees, her elbows, her pointed chin. 

Finishing the drawing with a rough background and some cross hatching, he carefully tore the page out of the book. He hesitated, about to hand it over, and then scrawled his signature in the bottom corner, the same way he’d signed the cartoons -  _ Captain. _ He slid the drawing down the bar. 

A genuine smile transformed the girl’s face as she picked up the drawing. “Golly. This is good. Do I really look like that?” 

Smiling back at her excitement, Steve nodded. 

“Look.” She held it out to the madam, grinning. “A portrait. Of little old me. He drew me all dignified, like a real lady.” 

“Dolly, the only difference between you and any fine lady is the luck of birth, and don’t let me hear you talking otherwise.” The madam leaned over to examine the drawing and hummed to herself. “Not half bad.” Then she frowned and tapped a polished nail against his signature. “This your mark?” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

“You draw other things?” 

“You mean blue pictures?” Steve sighed. “Yeah, on commission.” 

The madam’s eyebrows rose. “Interesting, but not what I was wondering.” Bending down, she pulled a folded newspaper from beneath the bar and brandished it. Steve must have looked confused because she said, “Gotta keep the mind busy when business is slow.” 

It was the New York Times, Steve noticed with a stab of homesick fondness. The madam thumbed through it, and then made an  _ ahah  _ noise. Folding the paper open to an inside page, she slid it across the bar between Steve and Dolly and raised her eyebrows. They leaned together to look. 

Printed, right there in black and white, was a very familiar drawing. 

It was a cartoon of a shanty town being razed with a bulldozer. The man in the driver’s seat was yelling  _ You’re lucky we don’t hang you! This is one of the good towns, _ to two scrawny children running away. 

Steve gaped. The memory of sitting by the fire doodling this slammed into him like a physical blow. All the way back… had they even left New York yet? When he put the cartoons in the mail, he hadn’t really expected anything. It was just a small act of defiance. And what were they doing in the  _ paper _ ? Who had sent them to the New York Times? 

Dolly blinked at him, then looked down at the portrait he had done of her. “You drew this?” 

Shutting his mouth, Steve nodded. 

The madam laughed. “The mysterious Captain, revealed at last.” 

“Mysterious?” 

“Sure, wasn’t that the gimmick? Mystery man, friend to the people, no word on who the artist is. You must be pleased with the speculation.” 

“Speculation?” Steve echoed. 

“About who you are. Someone in last week’s issue wrote in swearing that you’d been their CO back in the war, and someone else wanted to know if you were married. It sounded like a prurient interest.” Steve’s eyes were wide, and she frowned at him. “You don’t know? Dolly, see if you can find last week’s paper, if it hasn’t been used as tinder yet.” 

Dolly slid off her stool and disappeared behind the bar. Steve and the madam regarded one another. “You can call me Mrs. Curtis,” she added. 

“Steve. Steve Rogers.” 

“You look too young for service, Captain Rogers.” 

“It’s just a nickname.” He thought of Guy, and wondered if he had seen the cartoons in the paper. “People called me Cap.” 

Dolly came bustling back, waving a folded up paper. “Found it!” 

They all leaned over the paper as Mrs. Curtis opened it on the bar, and sure enough, there was another cartoon, this time of the sleeping soldier dreaming about the war. Viscerally, Steve remembered the night in the cells, his lungs burning, Bucky’s arms warm around him. Soupy’s nightmares. 

There was a letter to the editor printed under the drawing.  _ Dear Times, You must know I have been buying the Friday edition expressly for Captain’s comics. A plain talking people’s man is just what we need in these times. Agatha, St. Louis.  _

“You mean people are actually reading them?” Steve blurted. 

The madam gave him a look, like Mrs. Barnes did when Bucky had said something particularly stupid. “What did you think was going to happen when you sent them to the paper?” 

“I didn’t send them,” Steve said faintly.  

“Didn’t you mail these in?” 

“I. Well.” He flushed. “I mailed them to the White House.” It sounded stupid when he said it like that. “I don’t know how they got in the paper.” 

Mrs. Curtis’ eyebrows drew together. “You mean, they printed this and you didn’t get paid?” 

“No.” That thought was so far in the realm of fantasy it had hardly been worth exploring. Steve wasn’t the kind of artist who got  _ paid. _

“Well. Well, well.” She tapped her fingers on the bar. Dolly was looking between them, wide eyed. “Let me get this straight. You’re just a talented slip of a thing who’s been drawing comics and mailing them to the White House. Somebody there took an interest and mailed them to a friend at the Times, I imagine. The Times found that their readership liked the forthright and mysterious Captain. You didn’t even know they were in print. But they’re your art. They belong to you, under the law.” 

Steve swallowed. The gleam in Mrs. Curtis’ eye was a little terrifying. Behind her, movement caught his attention, and he turned to look at the stairwell as Bucky emerged. His shirt was tucked in messily, and his hair looked as though it had been rumpled and then smoothed back into place carelessly. Distracted, he missed what Mrs. Curtis said next. “What?” 

She glanced over her shoulder at Bucky, raised her eyebrows at Steve, and repeated herself. “I said, you draw any more of these? That you didn’t send, I mean?” 

“A couple. I was drawing other stuff mostly.”

“Could you draw more?” 

Bucky leaned on the bar. “What’s going on?” 

“Look!” Steve pushed the paper at him. 

Bucky’s brow crinkled as he examined the drawing. “This is yours?” 

Steve looked at Mrs. Curtis. “I guess I could. I’ve had some ideas.” 

“Steve, you drew this?” Bucky interrupted. “What the hell is it doing in the New York Times?”

“I mailed them.” His cheeks were warm. “Mrs. Curtis, how many have you seen in print? I only sent… six I think? Maybe eight?” 

Bucky was frowning. “You mailed these to the paper?” 

“To the White House,” Steve corrected, distracted. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“It didn’t seem important.” He looked back at Mrs. Curtis. 

“Well I couldn’t swear that I’ve seen them all, but I think I remember four or five? They’ll be running out soon, one way or another. And if this is any indication -” she tapped her finger on the letter to the editor, “-they’ll be sorry to lose you as an artist. I wonder if they’re already looking for someone to mimic your style,” she added thoughtfully. “That’s what I would do.” 

“Mimic my style?”

“Sure. They won’t want to lose a good thing. And with no one stepping forward to claim the art....” She shrugged. “Nothing stopping them.” 

“You think I should… write in? Send more drawings?” 

Down the bar, a man was leaning impatiently, glaring at them and waving an empty glass pointedly. The madam wiped her hands on her apron. “Tell you what. I can’t ignore our other customers all night. You boys take one of the upstairs rooms, and we’ll talk more in the morning.” 

“About the comics?” 

“That’s right.” She reached under the bar and pulled out a key. “Room 105.” 

“How much for the room?” Steve asked. 

She waved him off. “We’ll work something out.”

 

As they climbed the stairs, Steve couldn’t stop smiling. His art. In the paper! Bucky was silent behind him. The hall at the top was narrowed and papered in an unfortunate floral pattern, with lines of doors on either side. 105 was on the left.

Steve jiggled the key into the lock, shouldered the door open, and stopped short. 

There was a bed, just like in his imaginings of Bucky and the girl. Nothing remarkable, no silks or cushions or anything like that, just a wool blanket and an iron frame, but it was a double, wide enough for two. For all they had slept next to each other nearly every night for years, they hadn’t actually shared a real bed since Steve’s Ma died - and then, only when Steve was so sick or cold he just wanted someone to help keep him warm. 

When he stopped suddenly, Bucky almost walked into him. “What?” 

“Not exactly the Taj Mahal, is it?” Steve said awkwardly. It was the first thing that came to mind. 

Bucky snorted and shouldered past him. “You gonna be putting on airs now you’re a real published artist?” There was a mean edge to his voice, nastier than their usual teasing.

“Jesus, what crawled up your ass and died?” Shaking himself, Steve dumped his pack at the foot of the bed. “If a twenty dollar lay can’t cheer you up, I guess there’s no hope for you.” 

He expected Bucky to snap something back at him, fall into their comfortable pattern of insults, but there was just an irritable huff of breath behind him, and silence. Well, two could play at that game. 

It turned out being annoyed at Bucky cured his anxiety about getting into bed with him. Steve yanked off his boots, tossed his jacket on the floor, followed by his suspenders, and after a brief hesitation, his trousers. He crawled under the covers and curled up facing the wall. 

Bucky pulled the cord on the single electric bulb, plunging the room into blue darkness, and the sagging mattress dipped and squeaked behind Steve. The sheets shifted on Steve’s shoulders as Bucky pulled at them. 

Despite his excitement about the comics in the paper and his proximity to Bucky, the day of rail travel and the luxury of a real bed quickly caught up with him and he fell into an exhausted sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaanddd here's our B plot, back again! did you miss it???   
> next up... bedsharing!!!! whoooo! (that's A plot, of course)
> 
> For those of you who are curious about what happened to Guy, I'm uploading a little snippet about him as a separate fic, linked to this one as the next work in a series.


	11. Seattle, WA

Steve woke slowly, becoming aware of a crick in his neck and a warm body pressed against him. Drowsy, Steve blinked and found himself staring at a tousled head of brown hair furrowed with yesterday's pomade. The smell of it filled his nose when he breathed in. 

The mattress was old and sagging in the middle, and sometime in the night, they had rolled together into the center. Bucky was curled against his chest, one arm lying heavy against his waist. Steve’s head was tipped forward, cheek resting against Bucky’s head. He was sweating through his shirt where Bucky was pressed against him. 

Steve breathed out slowly, remaining perfectly still. He should pull away and untangle them before Bucky woke up. In just a minute he would. He could feel Bucky’s warm breath, gusting damp and steady against his neck. Rain tapped against the window and the morning light was gray. His heart was pounding and his skin felt raw and sensitive, almost feverish. He was hard, but that seemed unimportant compared to the way he was burning every place Bucky touched him. Bucky’s fingers were curled in the sheets over his hip, almost an embrace, and Steve’s hand was resting on Bucky’s shoulder. He needed to get out of bed. 

Steve slowly lifted his hand. Bucky didn’t stir. He was asleep, of course. Heart in his throat, Steve touched the tips of his fingers to Bucky’s shoulder, and ran them lightly down his arm, feeling the warm curves of muscle beneath his shirt. 

Bucky’s breath hitched and a slight tremor ran through his body. Steve froze and felt Bucky tense against him. 

Someone knocked at the door. “Rise and shine, boys!” Mrs. Curtis called, muffled from the hallway. 

The two of them jolted apart, bed springs squealing. Steve’s legs tangled in the bed sheets, sending him toppling into the wall. He caught a glimpse of Bucky’s face, wide-eyed and pink, before he turned away sharply. Had he been awake? Had he felt...? 

“Boys? Come down for breakfast!”

“Be right down, Mrs. Curtis,” Steve choked. His skin prickled with shame and horror. 

Bucky was yanking on his trousers and suspenders, his back to Steve. He bolted out the door without even stopping to lace his shoes, leaving Steve open mouthed, heart pounding in his throat so hard it made him nauseous. In the hall, he heard Mrs. Curtis’ exclamation of surprise and Bucky muttering something he didn’t catch, followed by the sound of Bucky’s footsteps receding. Steve felt frozen. 

Mrs. Curtis poked her head into the room. “You decent, hon?” she asked, already looking at him. Steve clutched his trousers in front of himself. “Everything alright? Your boy went tearing out of here.”

“He’s not my…” Steve pressed a hand against his face. “Everything’s fine. I’ll be dressed in a minute.” His cheeks were burning, heart racing. 

She made a clicking noise with her tongue. “I’ll be downstairs.”  

 

The parlor looked dingy in the light of day with the heavy drapes pulled back. The watery light showed the stains on the carpet, the scars on the polished bar, and the soot on the ceiling. Most of the girls and all the customers appeared to still be asleep, but Mrs. Curtis was drinking tea at one of the tables with a copy of the newspaper unfolded in front of her. There was no sign of Bucky. The way he’d rushed out, horrified - he must have been awake, and felt Steve… touch him. 

Mrs. Curtis caught him looking around. “He went out,” she said. 

Steve pulled his gaze away from the door and tried to make his voice steady. “It’s not my business.” 

“Mmmhm,” she hummed. “You want breakfast? There’s oats boiling in the kitchen. You can take some dried currants from the jar, but no more than a spoonful, you hear? They don’t grow on trees.” She winked. “They grow on bushes.” 

Steve served himself a bowl of oats from the crusted pot on the stove and sat down across from Mrs. Curtis.

She adjusted a pair of spectacles. “Now, you said you had more of these drawings?” 

Steve let his sketchbook fall open on the table. He had done a cartoon in the early days on the Weber ranch, when Bobby Nolan was losing the farm. It was on the back of a drawing of Nolan’s face, a study he had done the afternoon they branded the cattle. Looking down at it, he could hear the terrified bellows of the steers, smell the dust and shit and burning hair. 

Mrs. Curtis looked over his shoulder. “Alright. One is enough for now, to prove you are who you say you are. Now, the letter. Do you know what to say?”

“There’s more where that came from?” Steve hazarded. 

“Very good. And don’t forget to ask for money.” 

“I need an address where they can write back. They can’t send a check to  _ hobo jungle, Union Pacific Line, Somewhere USA. _ ” 

Mrs. Curtis tapped her fingers rapidly on the bar. “Tell you what. We’ll cut a deal. You boys can stay here as long as it takes to sort it out with the newspaper, and in return, you’ll do some painting for me.” 

Steve glanced at the insipid floral still-lifes on the walls. “What kind of painting?” 

She followed his look. “Awful, aren’t they? They’ve been here since I bought the place from Molly Wilkins, and I never quite got around to replacing them. I thought paintings of the girls, maybe. Make the parlor a little more… enticing.” 

“I don’t have any real paints.”

“It’s called an investment, honey. You do… two paintings a month, for rent? How long does a painting take?” 

Steve shrugged. He’d always wanted to take classes at the ASL but there had never been time. “I think I can do that.” 

“Good. And while you’re here, you can write to the paper and tell them where to send you your check.” 

He thought of writing to the New York Times -  _ Please send payment to Cpt Rogers, ℅ the Blue Rose Saloon,  _ and stifled a laugh. “Deal.” 

Mrs. Curtis pushed a sheet of paper toward him. “Get started then.” 

 

They drafted the letter three times before it met with Mrs. Curtis’ approval. By that time, some of the girls were awake and had wandered down the stairs. Dolly shuffled over to join them around noon, her hair in tied up in rag curls and wearing a flannel dressing gown that covered her from neck to toes. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” Mrs. Curtis said. “Any problems last night?” 

“No, he weren’t no trouble once you set him straight.” 

“Good. Now Dolly, how would you like a painting of yourself up here in the main room?”

“A painting?” Dolly squeaked. “In oils and everything?” 

“That’s right. Steve here has offered to do some portraits to hang up around the place.”

Dolly looked around, chewing on her lower lip. “I reckon I wouldn’t be wearing much in the way of clothes in this painting, would I?” 

“Well, you won’t be in furs like the Queen. But wearing something sells better than wearing nothing.” Mrs. Curtis poured her a cup of tea. “If you don’t want to, I’ll ask Samantha, but I thought I’d offer. Since you were so taken with Steve’s drawing last night.” 

She looked over at Steve and smiled, shyer than he’d expected from a girl in her profession. He blushed. “I did like it. I wanted to post it to my Ma, to show her how well I am. But you drew me so nice and grown-up, I didn’t want to part with it.” 

“I’ll do you another,” Steve said, thinking of the Barneses. If they were staying, he ought to write. He could imagine their faces when they saw the return address.  

Mrs. Curtis nodded. “That’s settled, then. How soon can you start painting?” 

“Well, I’d start with a sketch. I wouldn’t need any more supplies to do that.” 

“How about today?” 

Dolly gasped theatrically. “I don’t have my face on and my hair is in rags!” 

Mrs. Curtis chuckled and waved her off. “Later this afternoon. Before the dinner rush.” 

“This afternoon then.” Steve pushed back his chair and looked out the window. “I’m going  for a walk.” 

“Stay dry,” Dolly said cheerfully. 

Steve took a detour upstairs to drop his sketchbook on the bed and get his jacket from where he had dropped it on the floor. Down in the parlor, Steve hesitated by the door. “Bucky didn’t say where he was going, did he?” 

Mrs. Curtis’ expression was, he thought, unnecessarily pitying. “He didn’t. But if he’s looking for work, he probably ended up down by the piers.” 

Stepping out, he took a deep breath and tasted clean salt air. The earlier rain had washed the soot out of the sky and sunlight dazzled on the wet cobbles and brick. Turning toward the water, Steve stopped dead. Across the water the mountains blazed, snow capped and majestic, like drawings out of a fairytale book. 

Steve enjoyed walking through the bustle of a port town. Stopping in a shop that said ART SUPPLIES in the window, he bought a new set of charcoal pencils to start his career as a real artist and tucked them in his jacket. 

He made a loop almost as far as the Hooverville and back via the docks, not really expecting to find Bucky. He’d come back when he was ready, just like he always did. His chest twisted when he thought of Bucky running away from him, though. He should never have touched him like that. 

As if the very thought had summoned him, Steve turned a corner and saw a familiar figure just up the street. Bucky was walking next to a fair-haired young man. 

Steve opened his mouth to call out to them when the other man said something that made Bucky stop walking. Something about the change in his posture, a little defensive, made Steve pause, not sure what was happening. The man jerked his head sideways. Bucky glanced around, not seeing Steve at the corner, and nodded. The other man smiled and turned, walking away. Shoving his hands into his pockets, Bucky followed him at a distance. They disappeared into the maze of alleys. Heart in his throat, Steve went after them.

He picked his way as quietly as he could through muddy puddles and piles of trash. Focused on his feet, he almost missed seeing them slip through a narrow gap in a wooden fence behind a stack of crates. Anyone else walking down the alley would have passed it without noticing. Steve held his breath as he crept up to the hiding spot and put his eye against a knot in the wood. 

On the other side was a tiny courtyard. There were faded scorch marks on the brick walls. Something had burned down there, leaving an empty square between two buildings, open to the sky above. 

In the faint light Steve saw Bucky and his companion standing close together, heads tipped toward one another, talking quietly. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but then the other man sank to his knees in front of Bucky, and Bucky tipped his head back against the wall.

Steve’s heart stopped.

That wasn’t… Bucky didn’t… 

But he did, he was. He was sighing as his hands tangled in the other man’s hair, the man unbuttoning his trousers. 

Steve couldn’t breathe. There was something sharp lodged in his throat. 

Bucky made a soft sound, and Steve found out what Bucky looked like with his cock in another man’s mouth.

His pulse was thundering in his ears. He was half hard, shocked, but some part of his mind was crystal clear, thoughts falling like dominos. The easy way Bucky had agreed to the liaison was undeniable. This was something he had done before. 

It didn’t last long. Bucky groaned, a bitten off, muffled sound, and his body shook. The other man sat back, wiping his mouth. Steve caught a glimpse of Bucky’s dick, still mostly hard and shiny wet, before he tucked it back into his trousers. Arousal clenched so hard in his gut it made him nauseous. 

The other man stood, brushing off his knees, and said something that Steve didn’t catch. Bucky nodded and knelt down, and Steve turned away, feeling sick. He didn’t want to see Bucky suck another man off. He’d barely let himself have clear fantasies about it, but the number of times he had drawn Bucky’s face, taking meticulous care over the curves and shadows of his full lips… 

Instead he stumbled out of the alley as quietly as he could. If this was something Bucky did… if he’d liked men this whole time… If he’d done that before...

_ I know what well-fucked looks like, _ he’d said. Steve had been too terrified to register that at the time, afraid that Bucky was disgusted, that he would hate him. But he wasn’t disgusted, he… 

Distracted, Steve almost walked into a cart loaded with crates of fish on ice. “Watch it, kid!” someone yelled.

Why hadn’t he realized sooner? Bucky was his best friend, he knew him better than anyone, why hadn’t he guessed? 

But Bucky had always been just a bit older. He worked a real job, went out late. How many of those nights when he’d come back late, those times when he smelled like cigarette smoke and sweat instead of perfume, how often had he been with some man in an alley somewhere? When had it started? He cast his mind back, trying to pinpoint when something had changed. Sure, Bucky had gotten moodier as he got older, something worried in the set of his mouth more often than not, but that was down to his dad’s drinking, and then his death, and Steve’s Ma too, and the Depression - if this… thing had marked Bucky in some way, it had been entirely lost in the rest of his struggles. And Steve had missed it. 

His feet carried him aimlessly back down to the docks. The smell of fish, seaweed and sewage was overwhelming, but comfortingly familiar. Steve drifted like a ghost between the bustling fishermen and dock workers. 

What were the odds of both of them being queer like that? But Guy had thought so. He must have seen something about Bucky, the same way he’d seen something about Steve. That’s what he’d been asking, before he made a move, about whether Bucky and he were together. 

But none of that meant Bucky wanted Steve that way. He was still the skinny, asthmatic kid Bucky had pulled out of a dumpster in second grade. Not a romantic history, even if Bucky was bent that way. But even as he thought it, Steve remembered Guy looking at him skeptically,  _ Just a friend? _ He’d asked.  _ Is that what you call it in New York? _

 

The honk of a fishing boat startled him out of his reverie. The sun had sunk significantly. He was going to be late for his afternoon session with Dolly. 

Rushing back to the  _ Blue Rose _ , he arrived out of breath with a stitch in his side. 

Mrs. Curtis was already behind the bar. “I don’t tolerate tardiness in this house, young man. Dolly’s already upstairs. Room 102. I’ll be up in a tick.”  

“Sorry, I’ll be right there,” Steve called, already on the stairs. “I gotta get my sketchbook.” 

He burst into their room and stumbled to a halt. Bucky was on the bed, shoes kicked off in front of the door, looking like any other evening. “Where’ve you been?” 

“Just… walking,” Steve choked. “Stretch my legs.” He snatched up his sketchbook, aware of Bucky frowning at him, and backed out into the hall. “I gotta go.”

“Steve?” Bucky called after him, but he’d already slammed the door. 

Mrs. Curtis met him in the hall outside room 102, drying her hands on her apron. “We’ve got an hour while Patsy works the bar before the dinner rush.” Inside, the room was a more cluttered twin of the room where he and Bucky were staying. There was a girlde on the bed and shoes kicked under it. The top of the vanity was covered in cosmetics and ribbons. Dolly was carefully fixing her mouth in a small mirror. 

“Sorry I’m so late.”

“Everything alright?” Mrs. Curtis asked. 

“Yeah, yeah, I uh,” he was still breathing hard, and his hands shook a little as he took out his new charcoals. “I’m fine.” 

She raised her eyebrows at him but said nothing. 

Dolly was unbuttoning her blouse. A few days ago, the idea of a woman undressing in front of him, even under the matronly eye of a chaperone, would have made him blush and his heart pound. Now it seemed tame and comfortable compared to what he had witnessed an hour ago.

“How should I sit?” 

Steve waited while she and Mrs. Curtis worked out a pose, then opened to a fresh page of his sketchbook and began to draw. 

The room was quiet except for the creak and clatter of carts in the street below, the shouts of their drivers, and the occasional whistle of a train or a ship’s horn. Steve tried to lose himself in the satisfying scritch of fresh charcoal, but his mind wouldn’t stop spinning. 

No matter how hard he looked at Dolly, the soft curves of her body, the tantalizing shadows, the fall of her hair, he couldn’t erase the image flashing in his mind’s eye; Bucky on his knees in the alley in front of a another man. Couldn’t stop picturing Bucky’s mouth, as he had drawn it a hundred times. 

The charcoal snapped between his fingers. He swore softly to himself. 

Dolly made a distressed noise, and Mrs. Curtis looked at him sharply. “Are you alright young man?”

Letting out a heavy breath, Steve looked down at his sketchbook. “Have you… What would you do if you found out something about someone that they didn’t want you to know?” 

“Depends on what it was.” Mrs. Curtis raised her eyebrows.  “A bad thing?” 

“No. I don’t think so, not really. I guess it depends on who you ask.” 

She hummed. “And how do you know they didn’t want you to find out?” 

“He’d have told me if -” Steve swallowed. “I mean, he could have said…” He cut himself off. 

“We are talking about your friend here right?” Mrs. Curtis said. “Just so we’re clear?” 

Steve nodded silently. 

“And he’s done something that you don’t think is bad, but you wish he’d told you about?” 

He nodded again. Dolly was trying to looking back and forth between them without breaking her pose. 

“You boys. Well, you’ve got two options. You can pretend like it never happened -” 

“I don’t think I can do that.” 

She shrugged. “Or you can talk to him about it.” 

Nerves clenched in Steve’s stomach and his throat felt tight. “I don’t know how.” 

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

Steve choked on a laugh. “I don’t want to ruin anything. I don’t know what I’d do without him.” 

Mrs. Curtis sighed. “Listen. I don’t know you two at all, but my profession is reading people. And in my professional opinion, I don’t think there’s anything you could say to him to make that boy leave.” 

“No?” Steve fiddled with the broken charcoal, smearing glittering black dust on his fingers. “I thought… someone said something to me once, about Bucky. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I think maybe he was right. I’m not sure, though.” 

“And talking to your friend would make you sure?” 

“I guess.” 

“Well, it sounds like you oughta talk to him.” 

“Right.” 

“Well?” 

“What? But I haven’t finished the sketch.” 

Mrs. Curtis rolled her eyes. “Dolly’s lovely figure will still be here tomorrow. Go on. You’re not getting any work done as it is.”

“You’re right.” Steve closed his sketchbook but didn’t move. 

Dolly shrugged her dressing gown on over her chemise and tilted her head. “Steve, whatever it is… you’re a sweet guy, so if you think it’s not so bad, it must not be.”

Steve swallowed. 

Mrs. Curtis nodded pointedly at the door. “Just go talk to him.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU GUYS. WE ARE SO CLOSE YOU GUYS. I HAVE SO MANY FEELINGS. MY PRECIOUS BOYS.   
> SCREAM IN THE COMMENTS WITH ME.   
> Thank you all so much for being along on this ride. 
> 
> Character notes for Dolly and Mrs. Curtis:   
> Dolly was born on a strawberry farm in western WA, to a Japanese field worker and the son of the farm owner. She hates prostitution slightly less than she hates picking strawberries. As a kid she used to cut out drawings of ladies from magazine adverts.   
> Mrs. Curtis grew up in a brothel. Her mother died of syphilis and left her some savings, which she began adding to when she entered The Profession around 15. By the time she was 25 she had saved up enough to buy her own establishment. She now runs a small chain of clean, mid-cost brothels in Seattle and takes No Shit from anyone.   
> Do I get over-invested in my OCs? Yes.


	12. Seattle WA

Standing at the door to their room, he could hear his heart thundering in his ears. His palms were sweating as he clutched his sketchbook. It took him thirty seconds to work up the courage to open the door. 

Bucky was where he had left him, ragged book open on his chest, reading in the light of the electric light bulb. He frowned up at Steve. “Everything okay?” 

Steve said nothing, just shut the door behind him and put the book and charcoal down on the desk. Bucky sat up, laying the book aside and looking concerned. “Stevie…” 

“I saw you,” Steve said quietly. 

Bucky’s face froze. “What?” 

“I saw you today. With that man.” 

His face flushed and then went pale. Blinking rapidly, Bucky opened his mouth and shut it again.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Steve asked. 

Bucky cleared his throat a little. “Nothing to tell. It was just… everyone does it sometimes. Doesn’t mean anything.” His voice was weak. 

“Bucky…” 

“What?” he snapped. “It’s not like it’s a habit or anything. Jesus, Steve. Sometimes a man’s got needs.”

“Sure. Right.” Steve looked down, rubbing at charcoal smears on his knuckles. 

Bucky let out a heavy breath. The bed creaked as he shifted. “Look. Stevie. Don’t think about it too hard. It’s just… letting off steam. Easier than with girls.” 

“Do you like it?” Steve asked, the question heavy in the pit of his stomach.

“I mean.” Bucky wasn't looking at him. “‘Course. Nothing wrong with getting off.” 

“You know what I mean.” 

Bucky’s shoulders were hunched up around his ears, staring at the plaster wall. He said nothing. 

“You could have said something!” Steve burst out. “When I… When me and Guy…” 

“What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey Stevie, noticed you making time with a man, welcome to the club?’ It’s not… I wish you wouldn’t, Steve. You gotta be careful not to look at people the wrong way, approach the wrong guy. Not get caught.” He snorted. “I clearly wasn’t careful enough today.” 

“You just said it wasn’t a big deal! Now you’re talking like this is something you think about.” 

Bucky shot him a thunderous glance and looked back at the wall, glowering like the wallpaper had personally offended him. 

Steve swallowed around the sticky knot in his throat, clenched and unclenched his fists. “I think about men like that. Not just… getting off. You know. I think about… going dancing together. Sleeping in the same bed.” 

Bucky drew a deep breath, harsh in the silent room. Steve could see the rise and fall of his chest. 

“Guy thought you were jealous. About him and me.” Bucky flinched, but Steve barreled on. “And if that’s true… I just… I… guess I just thought you should know, that I… if you wanted...”

“Steve.” Bucky’s voice was choked. 

“That I want it too,” he gasped out in a rush. His heart was pounding so hard he felt lightheaded. “But you’re my best friend, Buck. I don’t need any more than that. You’re more important to me than anyone in the world. It’s ok if you… don’t feel that way. I never thought you did.” 

“ _ God _ , Steve.” It was almost a moan. Bucky pressed his palms hard against his face. “Fuck.”

“Bucky?”

Bucky’s shoulders rose and fell with a heavy breath, and then he looked up at Steve. His eyes were wide and dark, vivid color burning on his cheeks. He flung out a hand toward Steve. “C’mere.” 

Air rushed out of his lungs, and Steve felt a jolt in his heart, and his gut, and his cock all at once. He threw himself across the room, landing awkwardly with one knee on the bed, making it bounce and almost hitting Bucky with his elbow. He caught himself against Bucky’s chest and Bucky’s arms came up around his shoulders. They stared at each other, wide eyed, barely breathing. 

“Is this -” Steve whispered, “Are we-” 

“Shut  _ up _ , Steve.” Bucky curled his hand around the back of Steve’s neck and dragged him down to crush their mouths together. Their teeth and noses bumped, but Steve gasped and pressed back. His whole body, every inch of skin, was tingling. He tangled his hands in Bucky’s hair, breathing in the familiar smell of him, and opened his mouth, licking at Bucky’s lips like Guy had showed him. 

Bucky grunted like he’d been punched and fisted his hands in the back of Steve’s shirt, dragging him closer, mouth opening under his.  _ Oh God, _ that was Bucky’s tongue in his mouth. Their chests were pressed together, knees tangled uncomfortably. He was so hard he could barely think. 

With one arm around his waist, Bucky hauled Steve the rest of the way onto the bed, rolling them so they were side by side. Bucky’s thigh was between his legs, and that was - that was Bucky’s cock pressed against his hip. Steve’s arm was caught awkwardly under them but he didn’t care, clutching Bucky closer and humping his leg like an animal. It didn’t matter, because Bucky was groaning in his ear and thrusting back against him. Steve was trembling and flushed all over, sweat dampening his shirt. 

“Steve,” Bucky gasped. 

Steve tensed and smothered his cry against Bucky’s chest as he came in his pants.

“Did you just-?” Bucky peered at him, eyes wide. 

Steve’s face was burning, aftershocks still running through him. He panted for breath. “Sorry. Sorry.” 

“ _ Fuck,  _ that’s hot.” Tipping his head back, Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. 

They lay side by side, Bucky’s big hands splayed across his back, Steve’s head on his shoulder. Bucky was still twitching his hips up slightly, breathing hard, his breath ruffling Steve’s hair. 

Feeling dazed and relaxed, Steve reached down and touched Bucky’s erection through his trousers. Bucky swore colorfully and clutched at the sheets. Pushing himself up on an elbow so he could watch his face, Steve pressed his palm experimentally against the length of Bucky’s cock, feeling the shape of the head with his thumb. Bucky moaned, and then clapped a hand over his mouth. “Oh god, oh my god, Stevie,” he whispered through his fingers. 

Steve felt lightheaded, reckless, powerful. Pulling Bucky’s shirttails out of the way, he popped the buttons on Bucky’s trousers and slid his hand inside. The muscles in Bucky’s belly spasmed. Steve felt the hard jut of his hipbone, the smooth skin over it, and then, lower, thick, coarse curls. Then his fingers brushed the wet tip of Bucky’s cock, and they both caught their breath. 

Pushing his trousers down, Steve stared open-mouthed at the pink, glistening head of Bucky’s dick. It was blood-hot and velvety to the touch. All the times he had fantasized about touching Bucky, none of them had been this vivid, this explicit. Steve had to concentrate on breathing steadily for a moment as the realization washed over him; this was really happening - he was actually, _actually_ touching Bucky’s real, actual cock. An absurd part of him thought - _Just wait till I tell Bucky what I did today._ _Hey Buck, I touched your dick._

The thought made him want to laugh and steadied him a little. 

“Buck,” he said, breathless. He could feel himself flushing. “I want to… I want to suck you off.” 

Bucky tensed, although his cock twitched in Steve’s hand. “You don’t have to do that.” 

“But can I?”

“Are you…” Bucky’s face was scrunched up, cheeks pink. “Are you sure? It’s not… If you don’t want...”

“I want to,” Steve repeated. He did. Earlier today, watching another man get on his knees in front of Bucky, Steve’s stomach had turned over with longing and jealousy. 

“You really…want...” 

Not waiting for him to finish, Steve shuffled to his knees. The bed springs creaked under them as he leaned over and took Bucky’s erection in his mouth. 

Bucky’s whole body shuddered, hips jerking up. “Jesus, Steve,” he gasped. “Jesus  _ Christ. _ You’re gonna kill me.”

It was a lot bigger in his mouth than in his hand. Steve panicked for a moment, feeling his throat closing, before he remembered to breathe through his nose, just like kissing. The taste was sharp and startling. In theory this hadn’t seemed hard, but with Bucky’s cock thick and heavy on his tongue he felt more than a little out of his depth. The salty, sour taste flooded his mouth with saliva and he swallowed reflexively. Bucky made a strangled noise and thrust up, catching Steve by surprise. He choked and pulled off coughing. 

“Sorry,” Bucky gasped. “Shit, sorry.”

Wiping spit off his chin, Steve said, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”  

“It’s ok, it doesn’t matter.” Bucky pushed himself up on his elbows. He was red and rumpled, shirt pushed up and his hard cock lying wet and gleaming against his stomach. “C’mere.” Sliding a hand behind Steve’s head, he pulled him into a kiss. Steve shivered when Bucky’s tongue slipped into his mouth. 

“I really want to, Bucky.” 

Bucky let out an unsteady breath. “Take it slow, be careful of your teeth, you’ll be fine.” 

Steve leaned back down and tried again. 

He felt a hand on his head, Bucky’s fingers gently carding through his hair. It was comforting, familiar. He closed his eyes and breathed in the musky, sweaty smell of him. Steve could feel Bucky’s abdomen trembling under his cheek, the downy hair on his thighs, the spongy, velvety texture of his cock on his tongue. All his senses were full of Bucky - everything he could see and taste and smell and touch. His own arousal was a warm pulse between his legs. He was hard again, and his jaw ached, but that didn’t matter. 

Steve couldn’t take his eyes off Bucky’s face, even though it cricked his neck at an odd angle to look up. Bucky’s mouth was open, red and wet like he’d been biting his lips; cheeks flushed, sweat shining on his brow, hair all messed up as he tossed his head against the pillow. His eyes kept fluttering open and closed, coming back to meet Steve’s, black and glassy. His hips jerked in stuttering little thrusts, fingers curled in the duvet. 

“I’m… I’m…” he gasped. “I’m gonna… Steve -  _ sweetheart _ \- fuck!” 

Thick, bitter liquid flooded across Steve’s tongue. he pulled back, startled as Bucky came, pulsing shining strands of semen across his belly, his shirt, even up onto the pillow.

Sitting up, Steve wiped his mouth, and palmed his cock, uncomfortable in his sticky trousers. Bucky’s eyes were closed, chest heaving. “Holy shit, Steve,” he muttered. 

“Was that…” 

Bucky pulled him down beside him and wrapped a heavy arm around him. Steve breathed in the familiar smell of him against his damp neck. Wiggling closer, Steve pressed his erection against Bucky’s thigh. “It was perfect,” Bucky sighed. “Are you hard again? Did you get hard from sucking me off?” Steve squirmed, embarrassed, and Bucky tightened his arm around him. “I promise I will give you the best blowjob of your life. Just… give me a minute.” 

“The only blowjob of my life.” 

Bucky cracked one eye open. “You’ve never...” 

Steve shook his head. 

“Oh, hell. If you’d told me that, I would have done you first, before you practically knocked me out. Ok, c’mere.” He patted the pillow beside his head. “Take your pants off first.” 

“Here, you mean… on top of you?” 

“Do I look like I can move?” He let his hand flop dramatically onto the bed. “No. So get up here.” 

Pushing off his trousers, Steve blushed. He fought the urge to cover his erection with his hands. Bucky patted the pillow again. “Right on top of you?” Steve squeaked. It would put his cock directly in Bucky’s face. Which was the whole point, he supposed, but he could still feel himself going hopelessly red. 

“That’s right.” Bucky’s voice was low and rough. “C’mon Stevie, I want it.” 

Helpless, Steve shuffled forward and gingerly swung a leg over Bucky’s shoulders so that he was perched with one knee on either side of Bucky’s head. He was completely exposed, his thighs spread wide open, balls brushing against Bucky’s chin. The evening stubble on his cheek grazed his cock and Steve shuddered. He felt like his skin might actually combust and peel away from his flesh with the heat of his embarrassment, but it didn’t make his cock any less hard.

Bucky put his hands on Steve’s legs, running his hands soothingly up Steve’s thighs, the same way he had stroked his head. Then he opened his mouth and licked up the underside of Steve’s dick. 

“Fuck!” 

Bucky laughed, breath warm and damp between Steve’s legs. Steve shuddered helplessly. “Bucky…” 

“Easy, champ,” Bucky murmured. “I’ve got you.” Then he closed his mouth on the head of Steve’s cock. 

That was- it was… oh  _ fuck _ . 

He braced himself on the iron bed frame, and stared down at Bucky, wondering if he was about to come. His imagination had never come close to the reality of Bucky with his perfect lips stretched around Steve’s cock. The sight made his dick jump and leak, and the corners of Bucky’s eyes crinkled with a smile. He brought a hand up, cupping Steve’s balls and pressing his fingers gently behind them and Steve cried out again, hips jolting forward. He thought of Bucky pressing further, putting his fingers inside him, his  _ cock _ … 

Steve pressed his face into the crook of his elbow and bit his own forearm as he came. 

Gasping, he blinked his eyes open. He was slumped forward over the bed frame, his whole body trembling. He felt like he’d been stripped out of his skin, every inch of him raw and sensitive. His limbs were rubbery, like after a long fever. Nothing hurt. 

Bucky was still mouthing gently his softening cock, licking more than sucking. It was too much, and he whimpered at the overstimulation. Slipping sideways, Steve let himself collapse on the bed. 

Looking over at him, Bucky licked his lips. His mouth was gleaming wet, and Steve realized with a jolt of arousal in his stomach that Bucky had swallowed. Impulsively, he leaned over and kissed him, tasting the bitter-salty taste of his own come. Bucky startled back, like he hadn’t expected that, but Steve just pressed closer, until Bucky wrapped an arm around him and returned the kiss. 

Sighing as they broke apart, Steve pressed his face against Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky’s breathing slowed to a familiar rhythm, but Steve was wide awake. He could hear Bucky’s heartbeat, and a gentle rain had begun to fall, pattering against the window pane. It was as if the world had collapsed to the size of their room, their bed, and was now unfurling again, bigger and more full than it had been before. Distantly, a train whistle blew. “That was… I didn’t think I would ever feel like that,” Steve said softly. 

Bucky made a sleepy noise and nuzzled his hair. His skin was warm under Steve’s cheek even as the sweat sticking his shirt to his back began to turn chill. 

Twisting his head, Steve squinted up at Bucky. “How long have you wanted this?” 

Bucky snuffled and yawned. “Ages,” he sighed, hand tightening on Steve’s back.  

“I just keep thinking, how did we miss it?” He ran a hand down Bucky’s chest, just because he could. “We’ve lived in each other’s pockets for years. How could I not know?” 

Bucky cracked an eye open. “Stevie, you just sucked my brain out through my dick, you’re on your own for this conversation.” 

Steve ran his fingers over Bucky’s collarbones. “We've been idiots.” 

“Takes one to know one,” Bucky mumbled. 

“Well, how was I supposed to guess? You going out with every girl who said yes…”

“I  _ do _ like girls, you know. I just never-” He stopped. 

“What?” 

“Never met one I cared about like you.” 

Steve’s throat tightened, and he pressed his face against Bucky’s neck. “I’ve - as long as I can remember wanting anyone, it’s been you.” 

Bucky drew a shuddering breath, arms tightening around him. 

“Can you imagine if we’d gone another fifteen years without figuring this out?” Steve continued, nuzzling the collar of Bucky’s shirt. “You shoulda said something when you found out about me. I mean, if I hadn’t seen you, I’d never have known both of us were bent. We might not ever have realized.” 

Bucky had gone tense against him. “That was the point.” 

“What?” Steve craned his neck up to look at Bucky, but he’d turned his face away.

“The point was, I didn’t want you to know.” The contented drowsiness was gone from his voice. “I didn’t want this for you.” Steve pushed himself up, opening his mouth to protest, but Bucky cut him off. “Look, it’s one thing to get off with guys in alleys sometimes, but it’s another to… whatever the hell this is. Kissing, lying in bed. Hell, you know what people already say about us.” 

Steve sat back on his heels and pulled a sheet across his lap, suddenly feeling exposed. “Of course I know. It’s none of their goddamn business even if it’s true.”  

Digging his fingers into his hair, Bucky sat up and pulled his knees toward his chest, curling forward into himself.  “This isn’t… it’s not. Look, when I realized about you and Guy, I hoped it was just… ya know. A one-time thing.” He wasn’t looking at Steve. “I didn’t say anything because I… even if you wanted this, I hoped you’d… find something else to make you happy.” 

“Bucky…” Steve wrapped his arms around himself, feeling cold. “I want this and I’m not going to stop wanting it. Unless… I thought you did too?” 

Bucky laughed, a strangled, unhappy sound muffled against his arms. “You have no idea how much I want it.” 

“Then what harm’s it gonna do if it makes us happy?” 

Huffing an exasperated breath, Bucky shook his head. “Are you kidding me? What harm’s it gonna do? You think people say nasty things about us now?” 

“I don’t care what people say.” 

“You wanna live your life always hiding, wondering if the wrong word or look means losing your job, getting beat up, getting arrested? Getting  _ fucking killed?” _ He broke off, pressing his hands against his face and drawing a deep breath. “I don’t want that for you. You’re… you’re good, Stevie. You’re gonna do such good things. You’ve gotta get married someday, have a future and a… a life. A real life. Not some hidden thing with me.”

Steve grabbed Bucky’s arm, shaking him until he looked up. His eyes were red. “Bucky. Listen to me. I’m not stupid, I know it would be easier to fall in love with a girl and have a… normal life. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t...” He struggled with the words, the shape of the thought huge inside his head. “Normal means fuck all. No one gets an easy life. Being married didn’t stop the Nolans foreclosing their farm. That boy from Tennessee, there was nothing he could do about his town getting flooded. Muzzie didn’t ask for whatever the hell happened to him. I didn’t choose to be sick, or Irish, or poor, and I can’t do anything about any of that. But if I want to choose to be with you, I can. I want to. It’s not worth being scared, because no matter what we do, life is going to be hard. For everyone. And I’m sorry for all the other suckers who don’t have you with them, so I’m sure as hell not going to give you up for  _ normal _ .” 

Bucky was staring at him, eyes wide and wet. He swallowed. “You sure? Stevie, if you want this, you gotta be sure. If we… If I...” his voice shook and he stopped, looking away. “I’m afraid I won’t ever be able to give you up.”  

“Good.” Kicking aside the blanket, Steve crawled over to Bucky and tucked himself firmly against his side. “I’m sure, asshole.” 

Bucky let out an unsteady breath. “Goddamn punk,” he muttered, but he let his arm curl around Steve’s shoulders and hold him tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *deep breath*  
> Just the epilogue left, you guys. Thanks so much to everyone who has been on this ride with me.  
> xoxo


	13. Epilogue- Seattle WA

**April 1935**

The radio crackled and Steve fiddled with the dial as the announcer’s voice faded in and out. He was talking about the new emergency relief act, and Steve was missing one word in five to static. 

“Just give it a smack,” Dolly said from behind the bar. He banged on the top of the box. “That’s better isn’t it?” 

“Is it?” Steve chewed on his pencil. He didn’t think it was. 

“C’mon Steve, you can read all about it in tomorrow’s paper,” Patsy said, buttoning her blouse as she passed. “Put on some music or something!” 

“There’s a ball game on in half an hour,” one of the other girls added. 

“Leave him alone,” Mrs. Curtis called from the kitchen. “It’s for his work.”

Dolly nodded. “He’s got to stay up to date on current events.” 

“He oughta get his own radio then,” Patsy sighed, but she slouched over to the piano in the corner of the parlor and began plinking at the keys. On the wall above it was one of Steve’s paintings - a rather extravagant portrait of two of the girls drinking champagne in their chemises. 

Dolly set a cup of coffee beside Steve’s elbow and leaned over to look at the cartoon he was drawing. “What’s this one about?” 

“The new law. Thanks.” He blew on the hot cup. 

The door swung open and they all glanced around, the instinctive alertness of a working house, but it was just Bucky, shaking rain off his coat. His cheeks were pink from the chill, and Steve thought about kissing him and felt a pang of startled wonder when he remembered that as soon as they were alone, he could. It had been six months and it still surprised him sometimes. 

“You want coffee, Bucky?” Dolly called. 

“Sure thing, thanks!” Crossing the room, he stopped behind Steve’s chair, dropping a hand on the back of his neck. “Hey Stevie.” 

“Hey.” Steve smiled up at him, stupidly happy. “Did you hear about Roosevelt’s new law?” 

“No, I don’t exactly sit around a parlor with the radio on all day like some people I could mention.” But he was smiling back. “What’d FDR do now?” 

“New work law. The government’s gonna be able to hire people, public works, all that. Just like we’ve been saying all along.” Bucky’s thumb rubbed small circles on Steve’s neck, above the collar of his shirt, and it was distracting him. 

Bucky raised his eyebrows. “Think congress’ll fund it?”

“They’ve authorized five million already.” Steve grinned as Bucky whistled through his teeth. 

“Holy shit.” 

“See?” 

“Is that what you’re drawing about?” Bucky leaned over his shoulder, sliding his hand down Steve’s back toward his ass, hidden from the rest of the room by the chair and the angle of Bucky’s body behind him. 

Steve jumped, and tried not to squirm. “Bucky!” 

Dolly brought a steaming cup of coffee over and Steve made an effort school his expression into something less obvious. From the look Dolly gave them, he probably didn’t succeed.

Bucky took the cup of coffee. “Thanks Dolly. Good day?” 

“So far. It ain’t over yet. You?” 

“Fine.” He made a face, and looked at Steve. “The yardmaster caught a couple of hobos, and left ‘em with me to each ‘em a lesson.” 

“Oh?” Steve frowned. “Whaddya do?”

“Gave ‘em some water and told ‘em how to get to the Sally’s on Dearborn.” He smirked. “And told them to look scared when they passed the yardmaster on the way out.” 

Steve laughed. He hadn’t been able to stop laughing a month ago when Bucky told him he’d landed a job as a bull for the Union Pacific. “Wonder how long before your boss gets wise to you letting all the hobos off easy.” 

Leaning in close, Bucky whispered in his ear, breath warm and damp against Steve’s neck. “Lucky for me my best guy’s got a good job if I get laid off.” 

Dolly rolled her eyes. “Go on upstairs, you two.” Bucky grinned at her and Steve felt his face burning. “Oh, Bucky. Letter came for you today.” 

Bucky perked up. “From Brooklyn?” 

“You bet. Hang on.” She wiped her hands on her apron and pulled an envelope from behind the bar. “Here.” 

“Thanks.” He tucked the letter in his jacket. 

Mrs. Curtis poked her head out of the kitchen. “Is that James?”

“Yes ma’am.” 

“You get your letter?” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

“Good. You and Steve be down in time for dinner, you hear? Don’t forget you’re working the bar tonight.” 

“Yes ma’am. I remember.”   

“Alright. Off you go.” 

Bucky winked at Steve and jerked his head at the stairs. “You heard the lady. Let’s go.” Steve’s cheeks were hot, but he closed his sketchbook and got up. 

At the top of the stairs, Bucky kicked the door to their room closed, pressed Steve against the wall and kissed him. Wrapping his arms around Bucky’s neck, Steve arched up, loving the feel of Bucky’s chest pressed against his, his broad shoulders, his thigh between Steve’s legs. Spring rain pattered against the window.

Sliding his hands under Steve’s thighs, Bucky lifted him up and Steve squeaked into his mouth. Bucky carried him the two steps across the room and tossed him on the bed, making the springs creak and the iron frame rattle. Steve reached for the tin of vaseline on the dresser as Bucky fumbled with his belt. 

The first time they had tried this, it had been a mess. They were both tense, anxious and half out of their minds with arousal. They had gotten Vaseline all over themselves and the sheets and still only managed to get two fingers inside Steve. It had hurt, and Steve hadn’t wanted to keep going, but that was okay because Bucky had already come in his pants. Eventually they tried again, and Steve got used to the feeling and thought less about how strange it was and more about how good it felt when Bucky pressed up inside him with his fingers or his cock. Occasionally, they did it the other way around. Bucky had been shy about it the first time, by turns defensive and desperate, and he had come apart completely on Steve’s cock. It always left Bucky trembling and incoherent afterward, so they usually did it this way, with Bucky pressed up behind him, one arm under his chest, supporting him, the other opening him up.

By now, it was easy. Bucky pushed two fingers inside right away, curling them so that Steve groaned and bucked his hips for more. “Greedy,” Bucky murmured. “I’ve got you.” He pressed his fingers forward just right and Steve groaned, biting down on the covers. “You want another?” 

“Yes,” Steve panted, and felt the burning stretch as Bucky pressed a third finger in. 

“That’s good, you take that so easy. God, I love this. You gonna take my cock, sweetheart? Let me put it inside you, make you come?” 

“Yes. Yes, Buck, do it.” Steve’s fingers curled in the sheets. Sweat was sticking his shirt to his back. He felt the blunt head of Bucky’s dick against his hole and gasped. 

Bucky groaned. “Fuck, you’re so tight, Stevie. Never fucking get tired of this, you feel so good.” Eyes closed, Steve panted and tried to relax, feeling Bucky slide deeper. He loved the way Bucky talked in bed. It made his cheeks burn and his cock ache. Bucky was pressed flush against his back, all the way inside him. “Oh God, Steve.” 

Whining, Steve tilted his hips until Bucky’s cock was pressed against the right place inside him, and then pushed back, trying to coax Bucky into a rhythm. 

Bucky made a choked noise between a laugh and a moan. “Demanding punk.” 

All the breath rushed out of Steve on the first thrust. Bracing himself with one arm, he slid his other hand under him and wrapped it around his aching erection as Bucky began driving steadily into him. Steve would never get used to how good this felt. His cock was leaking onto the sheets. 

“I’m… Bucky… I’m gonna...” 

“Here.” Bucky thrust a hand under him, holding the rag they kept beside the bed, and cupped his hand with the cloth around the head of Steve’s cock. “Come for me, sweetheart.” 

Steve did, choking off a shout and clenching hard around Bucky’s dick. 

“Fuck,  _ fuck _ .” Bucky curled forward over his back and pressed his face against Steve’s neck as he came too, shuddering and going still. Slowly, he collapsed forward, a hot, heavy weight on Steve’s back. 

Steve grimaced, feeling the slick trickle of Bucky’s come behind his balls. It was hot as hell in the moment, less so when it was drying all over him. He wriggled until Bucky rolled off him with a groan. 

“I’m gonna go wash up.” 

Bucky, face down on the mattress, grunted. 

Getting unsteadily to his feet, Steve poked his head out the door and made a break for the washroom at the end of the hall. Cleaning himself up made him a little more alert, but he was still feeling loose and warm when he got back to their room. 

Bucky was exactly where he had left him, bare assed with his shirt still on. Collapsing back on the bed beside him, Steve ended up half on top of their discarded trousers and Bucky’s jacket, and heard the crackle of paper in the inner pocket. “Oh.” Sitting up, he reached inside Bucky’s jacket and pulled out the letter. 

Bucky yawned. “Really? You’re gonna read that now?” 

“Sure.” Steve folded his knees under him. “I’ll read it to you.” 

“M-kay.” Closing his eyes, Bucky hooked an arm around Steve’s waist and pressed his face against his hip. 

Steve slid his thumbnail under the seal of the letter and shook it open. It was in Edith’s familiar, neat hand. 

“ _ Dear Bucky _ ,” he began. “ _ Guess what? I’m getting married in September. _ ” 

Bucky made a shocked noise and opened his eyes. “Holy shit.”  

“No kidding.” 

“Is that what she said?” 

“No. She says,  _ I know! I can still remember telling you that I was never going to marry because all boys were stupid except you and Steve. And you said that I couldn’t marry Steve because you were going to marry him, and neither of us understood why Ma was so upset with us both. I was probably four? Funny how those memories stick. _ ” Bucky snorted and turned a little pink. Steve swallowed a laugh.  _ “But anyway, I found one who is only a  _ _ little _ _ stupid, and we are tying the knot. Tommy finished his apprenticeship this winter and is now a journeyman electrician. He doesn’t earn much but at least it is steady. That’s all you can ask at these times.  _

_ “The others are well. Becca just won a spelling-bee for the whole school, against kids three and four years older! She misses you very much and keeps your letters tucked in her journal. Ma is still working too hard, but the money you and Steve have sent helps enormously, not that she’d ever admit that to you. Naomi had a bit of a shock recently - one of the pals she’s been hanging around with got tangled up with the mob and turned up dead. She’s been staying home a lot more lately, talking about focusing on school, so all in all, I’m glad. Sorry for that other poor kid, though. Just glad it wasn’t her.  _

_ “On the whole, all is well here, although we miss you every day. We hung the drawing Steve sent up with others - we have practically a whole wall covered by now. Someday they will be worth a mint, all those originals, even if most of them are just of your ugly mug. Ma clips his cartoons every week from the paper too. She said Mr. Blumberg at the newstand was shocked when she started buying the Times as well as the Eagle, so you two can rest assured that you are causing neighborhood havoc even from three thousand miles away.  _

_ “I do hope you can come visit for the wedding. I know it is a long trip, all the way from Seattle (good gracious Bucky, I never thought you’d end up on the west coast of all places), but we are all just dying to see you. Give our love to Steve and write soon,  _

_ “All my love, Edith.” _

He set down the letter. 

“Getting married,” Bucky muttered. “Jesus. She’s just a kid.” 

“She’s my age.” 

Bucky shot him a look. “She’s my little sister. It’s different.”

“You think Tommy Baker knows what he’s gotten himself in for?” 

Bucky snorted. “I sure hope so, or he’ll be in for a nasty surprise.” 

“Remember when she poured whitewash all over Tony Morelli for cat-calling her?” 

“Ha. Yeah, I’d forgotten that.”

“We’re gonna go, right? To the wedding?” 

“Course. Yeah. But I won’t be able to keep my job if I want to take off for a couple of weeks to New York.” 

“Well, good thing I can cover us while you find another job. I mean,” Steve fluttered his eyelashes. “I’m kinda employed by the New York Times.” 

“If your head swells up any more we’re gonna have to buy you a new hat.” Bucky tousled his hair, but from the way he was smiling, Steve knew he was proud. 

“Lucky I can afford it now. If you’re sweet to me, I’ll buy you one too.” 

“Sweet, huh?” Bucky ran his hand up Steve’s chest, over his shirt. “Haven’t I been sweet enough already?” 

“Mmm. I think you oughta remind me.” 

“Oh yeah?” Steve’s breath caught as Bucky bent his head and nuzzled at the sensitive skin below his navel, and then nosed up, pushing his face under Steve’s sweaty shirt, making Steve laugh breathlessly and groan as Bucky’s mouth slid over his ribs. He nibbled and licked his way up Steve’s chest until Steve was panting. 

Then Bucky bit his nipple. Steve yelped, and smacked at him. “Asshole.” 

Bucky sat back, laughing. “Sweet enough, punk?” 

Steve tackled him and they tussled, sheets tangled around their knees, until Bucky pinned him, knuckling his head. “I give, I give,” Steve panted. They lay side by side, listening to the faint strains of jazz on the radio drifting up from below. “We could go back, you know,” Steve said. “To stay.” 

“To stay?” Bucky twisted his head on the pillow to squint at him. 

“Yeah. Go home to Brooklyn.” 

“Oh.” There was a silence, and Steve ran his fingers across Bucky’s chest. He would never get tired of having the freedom to touch. Bucky covered Steve’s hand with his own and squeezed. “Do you want to?” 

“I dunno.” Raindrops pattered on the window. The rain hadn’t let up since October, but it was a misty, soft rain mostly, and it hadn’t snowed. Steve’s usual winter breathing problems hadn’t been so bad in the mild weather. It was comfortable in their little room, especially with the solid warmth of Bucky up against him. “We could be close to your family again.” 

Bucky’s arm tightened around Steve. “Do you  _ want _ to go back to living on Ma’s floor?” The light tone of his voice was a little forced. 

“No, course not. But we could get a place of our own, maybe.” 

“Sure.” Bucky's head was turned to the side so that Steve could only see his profile, staring toward the window.  

“Buck?” 

“I just… spent so long hiding in Brooklyn. From you, from my family. Taking girls out dancing, picking up men at the Navy yard.” He had never spoken so openly of it. “It’s good to be… someplace new. No one knows us. ‘Cept the ladies, of course. People can judge us here but they don’t know shit about us. At home I was always… I had this feeling, ya know, like someone was looking over my shoulder. Like, Mrs. Kowalski or Miss McCreary were gonna see me doing something and tell my Ma. Unless…” Bucky looked sideways at him. “Do  _ you _ want to go back?”

Steve thought about Brooklyn - about the smokestacks and the brownstones, and the smell of the ocean. He thought about the cathedral on Flatbush with the stained glass windows, and the cinema on Jamaica Street. He thought about the Barneses’ tenement and the smell of roasting garlic, of the Kowalskis upstairs and the Horwitzes down the street. He thought of his mother’s grave. “I’d like to go back someday. But, it doesn’t have to be right now.” He thought of the blue mountains and the sun setting over the western sea. “I like it here. And anyway, I’d like to see some other places too.” 

“Ain’t you seen enough of this country?” 

“There’s so much more of it. I wanna go to California some day.” 

Bucky shot him a look and curled a possessive arm around Steve’s waist. “Dunno if we can afford all those train tickets.” 

Steve smiled, settling closer against Bucky’s side. The thrill was that they probably could afford it, but he shook his head. “Lucky for me, my best guy knows something about riding the rails.”

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, oh my god you guys. This has been a JOURNEY and thank you SO MUCH to all of you who read along for your comments, enthusiasm and encouragement. It meant the world to me, and here we are, finally done. I'm not crying, you're crying.  
> I'm not done with these boys yet, so stay tuned here on AO3 or on [my tumblr.](http://stillwaterseas.tumblr.com/)  
> ALSO my incredible beta has made a FANMIX for this fic and it is PERFECT. You can listen [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/bluestocking25/playlist/3jIGkH0QnXp0wBnDh70yHJ).  
> And now that this fic is done, spread the word to people who haven't seen it! I'm so proud of this and I just want to share it far and wide.  
> Big love to you all, it's been an absolute pleasure.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is love! Comments keep me writing.  
> If you like what you see, follow me on tumblr @stillwaterseas


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